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

[Revan86]

THIRTY-ONE
Bishop Takes Duchess (and Other Bad Moves)
28 March 1091 – 21 September 1093​

‘Please. Please, Zbi, not here! … Oh, Zbi! Zbi, please, no… not here…’

‘Then, Míra, my sweet: where should we go?’

‘Take me to your bed… take me, Zbi… you know I’m yours… I’ll let you do anything to me there…’

‘Oh, Míra. But you’re such a sweet and beautiful creature I can’t resist! Every word you whisper makes me burn! And it’s dark in here… don’t worry, no one ever comes here this late…’

If any of the servants or any of the other guests heard the sounds of rustling fabric being shed, or heavy breathing and gasping, or a duet of female voices—one mezzo, one soprano—in a crescendo of heated passion, none of them said anything to anyone else.

Instead, it was Kráľ Tomáš who, innocently enough at this hour, went to get himself a little snack from his vassal’s pantry. Just a bit of cheese or a nice bunch of fresh grapes would do the trick. He suppressed a burp and patted his expanding waistline with a meaty hand. Unfortunately, he had to acknowledge that Ricciarda had been right in telling him to cut back a bit on the snacks… which he would do, right after he had this one.

Perhaps it was because he was mired in thoughts like this, of his hunger of the stomach, that he ignored the sounds of the hunger of the loins coming from behind the heavy door between him and his destination. Heedlessly he swung the door open wide, and two female forms greeted his eyes, one young and fair and the other older and slightly arthritic, in a highly-compromised position against one of the pantry shelves. It was clear that the two of them had been interrupted in a bout of spirited sapphism.

Quickly Tomáš shut the door to leave the two of them in privacy—he had no desire whatever to expose them to censure and mockery—but behind him at least seven pairs of eyes, both noble and common, had already seen the same thing he had.

Tomáš turned around, clapped his hands together, cleared his throat and proclaimed loudly: ‘Zvonimír! Bring more wine! My throat is dry!’

But the damage had already been done, and worse—the king knew it. His heart wrung itself for Jaromíra’s sake. She’d always been such a demure, sensible girl! How could she let herself be seduced into fornication like this… by another woman? Poor Jaromíra Rychnovská! Poor Burgomistress Zbislava! Tomáš fretted over those two the rest of the night, long after they came out of the pantry fully-clothed and with heads lowered in mortification… he was sure they were due for some harsh penance by Bishop Horislav. At least this foolishness would not do any damage to Jaromíra’s virginity, though that was small comfort to the king, who continued kicking himself inwardly over his equally-sinful gluttony.

‘Uf!’ Hrabě Zvonimír exclaimed, plonking himself down next to the king with a goblet of wine. ‘Busy night, eh? Gave me a bit of a shock, tell you the truth.’

‘Yes,’ Tomáš said miserably. ‘And it’s all my fault! If only I’d let well alone and hadn’t gone raiding you!’

‘Well, if you’re fretting on my account—don’t,’ Zvonimír told the king bracingly. ‘I’ve got food and drink to spare; you’re not eating me out of anything I can’t afford. And if you’re fretting on their account—don’t! No honours were breached—women can’t do between them, you know, not without help—and the penances will be light.’

‘Mm,’ Tomáš’s pudgy face, now nose-down in his goblet, still took a long expression.

‘Say,’ Zvonimír still tried to cheer the king up. ‘At least you’ve got a grandson who can pray for you and fight for your salvation in a lavra now, right? Miloslav… following in Bishop Ignac’s footsteps! Or—what’s his monastic name now?’

‘Melet,’ Tomáš answered glumly. ‘Seems rather fitting he’d choose an Antiochian saint as his patron, given his father just came back from there.’

‘So… would that mean Prisnec is third in line now?’ asked Zvonimír.

‘Mm,’ Tomáš nodded again, warming a little to Zvonimír. ‘He’s such a dear boy. Handsome, like his father—that’s Ricciarda’s doing, none of mine. I’ve got such a fat round face. Only thing that reminds me of me in him is his hair. Keeps his nose down, does his work, never complains. He really is the spitting image of Bohodar; I’m sure he’ll make a fine king someday…’

‘Children,’ Zvonimír chuckled. ‘They’ll always surprise you, won’t they? No, you’re right—Prisnec’s a good lad, you’ve done well with him. I truly wish I could do so well by my children.’

‘Oh, you’re a fine father, I’m sure,’ Tomáš complimented his host. ‘I’ve seen you with your children; you’re strict but kind. I fear I’m far too indulgent with mine; I can never say no to them.’

‘If it pleases my liege, I can give you a few pointers there,’ said the hrabě eagerly. ‘Children like rules and structure—it makes them feel safe. I’m sure you know that well, my liege; but it’s all about setting boundaries, you see…’

Tomáš and Zvonimír talked children and parenting for the rest of the evening, until the embarrassing incident with Jaromíra and the burgomistress had been nearly forgotten. It struck the king just then how lucky he was to have a vassal who was a decent family man and a good father, and who was also so attentive to the needs of his guests. He would have to call again on his vassal—or, better yet, treat him to the hospitality of Olomouc! Even just speaking with him was a pleasure that eased the king’s mind.

Unfortunately, this would not be the end of the scandals in the Rychnovský family. Tomáš would be given several headaches in a row by his ill-behaved, incontinent and adulterous kinfolk.

First of all was that ninny Ján whom Mstivoj had left in charge of Dolné Sliezsko. The stupid boy had been senseless enough to go poking his vassal’s wife Svetluša, who wasn’t a day if she wasn’t three times his age! True, the Rychnovský men did seem to have a penchant for older women, but the idea of Ján and Svetluša—a married woman far past her childbearing years!—together, was nauseating. Tomáš put the advice Hrabě Zvonimír had given him about being firm to good use on Ján, who left Tomáš’s study downcast and shamefaced. Svetluša, who could now boast of an adulterous conquest of a tom fool young enough to be her grandson, Tomáš placed under lock and key in her room.

It was a surprise—a pleasant one, but a surprise all the same—when her husband Hrabě Kolmán of Přemkóv sent a goodly sum of silver to fetch her back home again. Whether or not that meant she was forgiven, Tomáš had no way to know.

Tomáš’s friend and vassal Hrabě Heník Abovský soon thereafter gave a feast in order to, again, cheer up the king. However, this feast unfortunately had the opposite effect, and Heník himself was partly to blame for it.

Not, of course, that Heník wasn’t pleasant company. It’s just that Tomáš found out far more about Heník’s private life than he’d ever wanted to know.

‘That man,’ Jakub was slurring to Tomáš, ‘has one truly fine saddle. I mean it, brother! I’ve never seen a more capable equestrian in all my years serving the Brotherhood. Hell. I even let him ride me one time. He’s got a big, thick and juicy one downcellar. Even better than being with a woman!’

Tomáš’s eyes went round and he stared at his brother incredulously.

‘Um. Please don’t tell him I said that.’ Jakub shook his jowled face and pleaded with his brother. ‘Or anyone else.’

‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Tomáš grumbled. Then, to himself, with his face buried in his hands: ‘And I truly wish you hadn’t told me.’

Heník was still very much Tomáš’s friend, and he knew that the hrabě could still be trusted, but… confound the man! And confound this ‘equestrian’ Brother of his! And on top of that, Tomáš’s own sister Anna, starving for affection after the deaths of two husbands, had been caught copulating with a much-younger courtier herself! Between Anna and Jakub and Ján and Jaromíra—had the whole of the Rychnovský clan turned into perverts and sapphists and sodomites overnight?! Or had they always been this way and Tomáš had never known about it?

And then—

‘Father,’ Bishop Ignac called to him from outside his study. ‘Can I come in and talk to you?’

‘Of course, son! Please! … Although I suppose I should be calling you Father.’

The mitred monastic trod timidly into the room, cringing as though in fear of some dreadful judgement about to be passed upon him. He sat in front of his father. Sat and fidgeted. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Fidgeted some more.

‘I—Well, I… I—’

Tomáš folded his hands in front of him and waited for Ignac to get out the sentence he was choking on.

‘You have a grandson,’ Ignac blurted suddenly. Then he pulled up his legs and flung his arms around them, as though waiting to be slapped.

‘I have several grandsons,’ Tomáš said placidly. ‘What are they to you?’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Ignac told him, meeping into his robes. ‘I mean—you have a new grandson.’

A feeling of foreboding came up behind Tomáš and gripped him icily around the heart.

‘A new grandson. Who?’

‘Hromislav Bijelahrvatskić!’ Ignac choked.

‘What?’ Tomáš sat forward. ‘Vojvoda Siloš’s boy?’

Ivan shook his head hurriedly, and then burst out bawling. ‘Not Siloš’s! Not his! Hromislav is of my getting! The sin is mine! God forgive me! Father, forgive me! I was hoping it wasn’t—! I have fallen! I have earned my damnation! Not only mine! I’ve been her damnation as well—Volimíra’s! Oh, Volimíra—you beautiful angel, look how I’ve ruined you! Oh, God, what have I done? I’ve ruined her! And they… they know! They all know! Oh, God, forgive—!’

Once again Tomáš planted his face in his palms… harder than he’d ever done before. He groaned in disappointment. Of course the Kráľ was well aware of Volimíra’s buxom blonde charms, as well as the… casual way she conducted herself with men she wasn’t married to. Still, for that to seduce a bishop of the Church—and not just any bishop, but the king’s son—! And now she was enjoying the fruit of her triumph, in the form of a baby boy that wasn’t her husband’s getting.

Nine months ago… Wait. That hadn’t been—yes. Yes it very much had been. The feast of Hrabě Jaromíl of Žatec. Volimíra had been there; of course she had. And Ignac had been there. And she’d been making eyes and playing at feet the whole time with the bishop. The two of them had left the hall together early in the evening. And of course Tomáš had been too drunk to intervene…

‘Čert. What a mess.’

Ignac was still blubbering and rocking back and forth in his seat, as though he was still expecting to be beaten like a servant caught in theft. It took Tomáš the better part of an hour to calm down his nerve-wracked and noisily-penitent son.

Scandal after scandal after scandal… it was enough to drive Tomáš mad. The weight of being a king, the drudgery of it, and responsibility after responsibility heaped upon his shoulders like sacks of stone…

‘Milord,’ came the prison guard, ‘the prisoners have been asking for—’

‘Hang them!’ Tomáš burst out.

‘M—milord?’

‘You heard me. Hang them all! Now!’

The prison guard, scared stiff at this outburst, bowed low and left quietly to carry out his king’s order.

As soon as Tomáš came to his senses out of his black rage—which had nothing to do with any of the prisoners or anything they’d been asking for—and realised what he’d done, what he’d ordered, he rushed out to the courtyard to stop the execution. But it was too late. The scaffold was already up. Five halters. And five former prisoners—including Hûšyâr the Kurd—were swinging limply from them.

And Tomáš truly broke down. And now it was his turn to beg God’s forgiveness.

He went back into his study, spent some moments standing in contrite prayer, and then sat down with an empty sheet of vellum to write. Write: every single one of his failures, his worries, his disappointments, his struggles, his burdens. Line after line after line of Tomáš’s hand flowed from the tip of the quill. And the names of the five prisoners…

Not only ink stained the parchment now. A blotch of clear water fell upon it. Followed by another. Then another. The king’s corpulent shoulders shook uncontrollably, and he wept over his writing.

 

[alscon]

All that feasting had to invite decadence, but it has really taken hold of every layer of Moravian nobility, it seems. Understandable that Tomáš snapped at some point. Though hangings are not exactly the solution.

 

[Revan86]

Now - getting to the comments! Happy to see that you both continue to enjoy and interact with the story, @alscon and @filcat!

“(…) during the ninth-tenth centuries (…) a first experiment of a Greek elementary grammar outside the Byzantine tradition.” Donati Graeci, Learning Greek in the Renaissance, Federico Ciccolelia, 2008​

The friendly nerdic defender of the fictional lores has reported, and adding: Kudos.

Cheers! I enjoy placing these little flavour details; glad they are appreciated.

The number of times closing eyes with each abhorrent word uttered by the character Anna up to this point had slipped from the mind. Acceptance of the child by her gave a faint relief, while rubbing the forehead considering the tragedy of Siegel. Then these words of him hit, and it broke the nerves, and it was necessary to get up and take a brief pause.

Smart, that one is. Though it may require a couple of hundreds of years and scientific revolution to be able to employ the full might of the latter of the two. 10/10 points Viera, and here is your diploma – hey, for eleventh century, having questions is huge.

Antisemitism is, unfortunately, a reality of this time. Jews were not (as a rule) treated well by Christians in the Middle Ages. It does go without saying that some places, some times, some rulers were far better than others. It's difficult to say where the Ashkenazic characters come from or where they go at least as far as The Engine is concerned, and it is left to the authAAR to fill in the human side of their stories. But in history, attitudes like Anna's are unfortunately not uncommon, and decent innocent men like Siegel ben Yousef were unfortunately too often victims.

Blessed as she is with both quick and amazonian traits, though somewhat unfortunate in her caretaker, however, little Viera's role in this story is very far from done.

The lad leaves no chance behind for any feast. Have to reconsider prior guesses. Hmmm.​

That, he certainly does not!

Yeah, Aribo; apparently you and Anna could use some help from that cringing, stammering, lily-patted little hanger-on, such as for learning to be a human being.

Ivan / Bishop Ignac's failings, such as they are, are at least failings of sympathy rather than the reverse. That makes him (at least to me) a more sympathetic character... but not necessarily one more fun to write!

All that feasting had to invite decadence, but it has really taken hold of every layer of Moravian nobility, it seems. Understandable that Tomáš snapped at some point. Though hangings are not exactly the solution.

Quite so, quite so. Very astute observations as usual!

I see Moravia at this era as being somewhat similar by analogy to the reigns of the late Stuart kings in England. A certain official joie de vivre being encouraged from the top (not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself) nonetheless allows certain vices to grow in its shadow.

 

[Revan86]

THIRTY-TWO
Unexpected Alliance
21 September 1093 – 1 November 1095

‘Say that again, please.’

The herald from the north cleared his throat nervously, and then repeated himself—fearing for a moment that he had offended Kráľ Tomáš. ‘Velyky Knedz Daniil of the Červeňski Horody sends his deepest regards and heartfelt goodwill to your Majesty, his brother in Christ Tomáš. He also wishes to come to an accord of amity, in Christian fellowship with you and with the realm of Velyka Moraviya, to safeguard each other’s marches in times of war.’

Tomáš regarded the messenger with a steady calm. He held that for an uncomfortably long stretch until the messenger began to fidget, before he spoke.

‘You bring me incredible tidings, and call it “regards and goodwill”. The Červens are well-known to us in Moravia. But any such “Christian fellowship” with us, comes as a surprise. You have made skirmishes and raids upon our borders, and taken silver and slaves, whenever the advantage afforded them to you. You have regarded us hitherto with envy and spite, and this you now call “amity”?’

The Červen messenger waited until he was finished before he spoke again, but he had a ready answer for the king’s objection which had obviously been rehearsed. ‘If it please your Majesty, whatever paltry inconveniences, whatever trivial slights we may have committed upon you arose from our ignorance and our poverty. Now that, thanks to the wisdom of our Prince Daniil, we have seen the true light, received the heavenly spirit and found the True Faith, we are regenerated. Now we would approach you as equals in dignity and in honour, as true allies.’

Ricciarda beckoned the king’s ear toward her, and spoke sotto voce. ‘I don’t like this. This Červen is far too glib and oily-tongued. “Regenerated”, are they? Without making any kind of material recompense? Without restoring any of the women and children they took from Sadec and Maramoroš to their families? And now they wish to be treated as equals, and have us as allies? This sounds far too one-sided to me.’

Privately, Tomáš was inclined to agree. Even if he had embraced Christ in holy Baptism, Daniil had the reputation of a glory-hound, an opportunist, a skin-flint and a murderer. In general, the Červens were absolutely not to be trusted. On the other hand, though… if it would mean an end to the raids and a relief of pressure to their north… at least a show of amity and fellowship might make all the difference. He would have to choose his next words with care.

‘You may tell your lord and master,’ Tomáš spoke deliberately, ‘that I have received his offer with gratitude, and that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to welcome him as a brother in Christ. As a show of good faith, you may take back with you a charter which my court clerk will draught for you. If it please Daniil to do so, he may bring it, signed, to a meeting at neutral ground at the town of Gorlice, where we may formalise our amity.’

Clearly the messenger had been expecting something more immediate, given the attitude of his brow, but he was not about to turn down even a partial diplomatic victory for his lord. ‘Very well, O Kráľ. I shall take possession of this charter and deliver it faithfully.’

‘No doubt,’ Tomáš told him coolly. ‘You shall be informed when it is ready. You are dismissed.’

The Červen messenger performed an obsequiously low bow, and left. Tomáš turned to his wife.

‘Do you know what Olomouc could use about now?’ he asked.

‘I do indeed,’ replied Ricciarda with a tolerant smirk. ‘With you, it goes without saying. And before even you ask it: I certainly do have the funds to see to it, and no objections to arranging and managing it… as long as you remember to manage your weight.’ To drive home her point, Ricciarda prodded her husband in his substantial gut.

Tomáš sighed. ‘I will try. I cannot promise more than that.’

~~~

The delectable smells wafted from the kitchen as Tomáš entered it, and he couldn’t forbear from overseeing some of the work and sampling some of it. ‘Excellent pork, truly tender and singed to perfection… mm, good crop of berries this year for the lekvár… careful, you don’t want to add too much salt there… ahh, sweet almond paste for the trdelníky, wonderful, wonderful…’

The Kráľ had a genuine love for almond-flavoured trdelníky, just as he loved anything with such confectionery amounts of sugar and butter. But of course, there would be that one vassal, the hrabě of Hradec and Heník’s younger brother Vítek Abovský, who couldn’t stand almonds, and had a rather strong reaction to them. Tomáš couldn’t quite suppress a grin as he thought of the commotion that might ensue when the pastries were… accidentally put in front of the man. He wouldn’t be so cruel as to actually let Vítek eat them and then suffer the consequences, but the Kráľ was a patient man. He could await the right moment to let that hint drop in Abovský’s ear, and then enjoy the show.

It unfolded even better than Tomáš had anticipated. Vítek was normally quite cautious, but in this instance he had already imbibed too much wine by the time the desserts were presented. Vítek incautiously reached for the irresistible-smelling trdelníky when Tomáš mildly observed:

‘You, ah… might want to be careful with those, Vítek. The paste has chopped nuts.’

Like a bolt from a crossbow, Vítek’s arm and body flung back and he nearly tipped over his chair in bewildered panic, and at once he started cursing a blue streak at the offending pastries until he was somehow even redder in the face than he already was. Tomáš brought a hand to his mouth in order to stifle the chuckle that was building behind it while Vítek tried and failed repeatedly to compose himself. He stormed out of the hall to cool off.

‘That was a risky little lark,’ the nearby Heník chided the king, though a smirk was forming under one corner of his beard. ‘But I won’t say my dear brother doesn’t occasionally earn it.’

‘Mm,’ Tomáš waggled his brows at the elder brother Abovský. ‘Well, we all overlook things from time to time, do we not?’

Heník stroked his beard, then reached for a trdelník himself. ‘Thankfully, I suffer from no such sensitivities, and I do enjoy a good crepe. Please do give my compliments to your cook!’

‘I shall indeed, I shall indeed! More mead, Heník?’

‘Please!’

The festivities did much to ease Tomáš’s mind, and especially the fact that his trusted finder of secrets was with him and celebrating throughout. Despite his… eccentric proclivities in the bedroom (along with half his court and family tree, Tomáš reflected with an inward sigh), it was rare indeed to find such a friend as Heník Abovský, who was both loyal and steadfast, and whose company was to be appreciated!

~~~

The invitation was unexpected, but it did not come as a surprise.

‘Dear, it’s your cousin Vojvoda Drosuk this time,’ Ricciarda told Tomáš as he entered the bedroom. ‘Looks like you’ll get another chance to see Míšeň. Do a man a good turn and see what it gets you!’

‘Was it a good turn?’ asked Tomáš.

One thing Tomáš was not at all shy about, was keeping his vassals in line. Thankfully, most of his vassals were happy enough with his cheery and placid exterior that they didn’t think to take advantage of him. But on the off chance one did, Tomáš was quick to decide and quick to act. He would happily strip any man of his titles who seemed to be getting too big for his breeches, and that had been the case with Horné Sliezsko of late. He had brought forward a case that Hraběnka Jordánka’s oath was owing, not to that adulterous fool Ján, but to himself… and then he had transferred that oath along with the rights over Brassel—to Drosuk. Better to have Ján and Drosuk at each other’s throats than his. Besides, he just didn’t want Ján getting any ideas just because they were kin.

Still, if Drosuk wanted to thank Tomáš for the ‘favour’, he wasn’t about to turn him down. Especially not when Drosuk was hosting yet another grand feast at his hall in Míšeň!

‘Also, mio caro, you may wish to check on your grandson in the hall. He’s been waiting there for some time. Never even made a sound when you came in.’

‘Has he?’ Tomáš went out into the hall and found Prisnec there. ‘I heard you were looking for me?’

‘Yes, dedo,’ Prisnec spoke up mildly. ‘I was wondering if you would give me your permission and blessing to go into the town foregate for a few weeks… I’ve been helping the woodsmen make their adjustments and build their lodgings outside town these past few days, and I’d like to continue.’

Hm. His grandson working with his hands… Tomáš gave a brief but fond shake of his head. Prisnec had gotten that from Ricciarda, too. And at any rate, if it helped Prisnec feel useful, then…

‘That’s a project near and dear to my heart, lad; I’m happy that you’re taking such an interest. Though take care… it’s not entirely suitable for one in our position to rub shoulders too much with woodsmen and the like. Remember that you are a Rychnovský—high-born—and you should act like it.’

‘Yes, dedo,’ Prisnec bowed meekly. ‘I shall not overstep my mark.’

~~~​

Míšeň was quite a bit smaller than Tomáš remembered it, though as he’d last been there when he was… what, ten years old? that wasn’t really a surprise either. It was a cosy town, though—it had a kind of comfort to it. Tomáš enjoyed the time he got to spend in these Sorbian lands; he felt that the Sorbs of villages and towns like these always felt so warm and close-knit and caring.

Tomáš had always taken Drosuk Mihálek Rychnovský-Žič, the vojvoda of Milčané, to be a fairly quiet and inobtrusive man. Drosuk had a taciturn and secretive streak a mile wide, and kept his own counsel rather than anyone else’s. (This was why, evidently, Prisnec had been allowed to go out and work under Drosuk’s commission on the forestry project outside Olomouc for a whole week, without the Kráľ knowing of it.) But as šafár he was quick, efficient and competent, and the Kráľ had no reason to complain of the results of the man’s work.

‘I bid you welcome,’ said the soft-spoken vojvoda as the king entered the hall. ‘Please, have a seat up near me!’

Tomáš gladly took the seat of honour, and Ricciarda the next one down, and Bohodar and Alitz the ones after that. More guests after him began filing in, and taking up their places around the well-stocked high table. Huddling in the corner of the room, Tomáš saw the form of Drosuk’s sister Pechna Rychnovská-Žičká… clearly this feast, and her attendance at it, had not been of her own will. Tomáš was an experienced enough hand at social gatherings like this to keep the other guests entertained, and well away from his cousin.

‘I must thank you, O Kráľ,’ Drosuk spoke softly to the king some time later. ‘Pechna would not have come down at all had I not insisted, which is now something I rather regret. And… well, I appreciate your consideration of her comfort.’

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ the king answered him graciously. ‘You have put on quite the lavish display here!’

‘You needn’t spend your thanks on me,’ Drosuk told the king with a bowed, self-beshedding head. ‘This meagre meal is but poor recompense for the honours of Jordánka’s oath and the attendant rights over the town of Brassel which your Majesty had the grace to bestow upon me.’

‘In turn thanks for your excellent stewardship,’ Tomáš waved a meaty hand. ‘No, no, if we’re here to add up debts and favours we’ll be at it all day. Think nothing more of it, Drosuk! You must tell me now, though, how you had these sugared plums prepared! Not too sweet—a very delicate flavour. I must add this confection to my cook’s repertoire in Olomouc, clearly!’

In this, of course, the good šafár was all too happy to oblige his liege. The talk of sweets and recipes occupied the two of them for much of the feast. By the time Tomáš left Drosuk’s feast, he had not only the sugared plum process, but also the recipes for several new varieties of lekvár he hadn’t tried before. Yes, indeed—feasts like these were always a pleasure for the king, though naturally they did no help for his weight.

 

[Revan86]

THIRTY-THREE
The Bitter End
20 June 1096 – 2 June 1097

​

‘Brothers and sisters,’ intoned Bishop Ľuboš of Horné Sliezsko as he took the amvon that Whitsunday, ‘today is one of the Great Feasts of the Church; indeed, this is the day upon which the Church was founded among the Apostles. The Apostles were in Jerusalem when the Holy Spirit descended upon them, and then they went and spread the Gospel of Christ throughout the world. We who uphold the True Faith look upon this Feast, the Feast of the Holy Spirit, with the great joy that accompanies faith. Upon this day, the Apostles felt upon their necks the mighty wind, and upon their heads lit bright flames of fire, and from their tongues issued all manner of speech, of every nation upon the earth. What could possibly compare with this wondrous joy, the joy with which the work of the Tower of Babel was completed—not by human hands, but by the hand of the Holy Spirit?

‘And yet—how many of us this day will spend it, not in a wakeful state of joy, but in a sensuous stupor? How many among you will, rather than feeling the mighty wind of the Paraklete upon your bare necks, instead blow upon each other the hot air of worldly flattery or malicious gossip? How many among you will, rather than spending the day wreathed with the flame of holiness, instead scorch yourself in the sheets with the unholy fires of lust? And how many among you will employ your tongues, not in spreading the Good News of Christ, but instead in these prodigies of gluttony and drunkenness which have taken their creeping hold in every court in the land, these mockeries of our holy joy which blasphemously usurp for themselves the name of “feasts”?

‘I speak not in anger—do you see these tears upon my face? I weep for my land. Great Moravia has long been a land of Pentecost. A land championing the Gospel in the Slavonic tongue—and in every tongue. A beacon of the fires of the Christian faith. And yet… what have we become, with our soft pillows, our sumptuous meals, our lulling secular melodies, our cascades of wine and beer and mead? Which of us, upon looking at ourselves, can escape the judgement meted out upon the unprofitable servant? Our neighbouring vojvoda defiles honourable beds and confuses the generations! The kňažná of the southeastern march given birth to a monk’s child! And, shame upon shame, the disturbing news has reached my ear that even one among you—you, in this very church—has seduced the very sister of the king, and has lain repeatedly with her in fornication.

‘How can I speak of these things without lamenting? How can I know of these defilements, and remain silent as our earthly kingdom slides down the wide and well-trodden path to destruction, and as the ways of the world which is passing away threaten to rob us of the kingdom which is to come?

‘Brothers and sisters, my dear ones, my beloved Silesians, I shall not weary you with long harangues against the sins of which you are already aware in your hearts. Instead I shall call upon you to turn away from the earthly city and embrace again the waters of the Jordan—the waters of your baptism. With tears of contrition, with sighs of repentance, face the east and come forward into the waters which Christ our God has sanctified! Today I will beseech you: go not into the halls of drunkenness and lust. Descend rather with prayer into the inner chamber of your heart. Put aside the passing entertainments of tomorrow, and enter into the eternal mystery of the Day of the Lord. The way of healing is open to all. My dear ones: I would that we may all find it. Glory to Christ Jesus.’

~~~​

The homily of Bishop Ľuboš upon the feast of Pentecost, E.K. 6605, fell upon the ears of Tomáš the King of Moravia like a thunderbolt. Not only on account of his own behaviour in attending and hosting the secular feasts which the good bishop was decrying: that would have to change. He knew at once also that something must be done about Anna. He didn’t know the identity of Anna’s lover for certain, though he could still connect certain dots. He could infer from the reports of Bishop Ľuboš’s homily that Anna’s paramour was a member of the Rychnovský-Kluczbork family and that he attended the vojvoda’s court in Opolí. He also knew that her lover was much younger, or at least hale enough of body to make the journey regularly between there and Olomouc.

And well Tomáš knew that, questions of potential incest aside, it wasn’t appropriate for a court physic to be ‘out’, doing exactly what everyone supposed she was doing but of course no one dared say aloud, as often as she was. There was no question that she had been indiscreetly entertaining her younger Silesian kinsman at her allotted residence in town for years. Tomáš had to take action, though the prospect did not make him happy at all.

‘Anna,’ he sighed, ‘I have made arrangements for you. From now on you will stay with the sisters at Krásny Brod, and take the vows of chastity and obedience.’

Anna jutted out a stiff jaw. ‘And what have I done to deserve this? Surely you don’t credit rumours and hearsay?’

Tomáš steepled his fingers and regarded his sister with a pair of mildly-incredulous raised brows. ‘I’ve long looked on you as a friend, sister, so please don’t take me for a fool. I may not know the man, but I have proofs that he exists. So I beg you: please don’t make me spell out the debauched purposes to which you have put the bedrooms and town residence I’ve provided you.’

Anna lowered her head, chastened. She dared not try to refute what her brother already knew.

‘So I am off to become a nun,’ she sighed in resignation. ‘Very well. And what is to become of my ward and pupil, Viera? She is not yet of the age to take care of herself.’

‘Viera shall be provided for in this court. Never fear, we shall not let her go wanting for a home.’

~~~​

One of the first people to notice the thirteen-year-old Ashkenaz girl’s arrival in the court was none other than the young grandson of the Kráľ, Prisnec Rychnovský. He knew who Viera was, of course. They’d spoken before, briefly. She was kin; she was Teta Anna’s ward. And of course he’d heard the rumours that she was a Jew.

Her dark hair and brows, her deep brown eyes and her dusky colour were certainly captivating! And she was tall—taller than Prisnec, not that that would take much!—and sturdily-built. Although she did not speak a word on her way into the hall, Prisnec found his ears straining in curiosity after the sound of her voice once she did decide to use it. It was a low-pitched but mellifluous mezzo, which startled him a bit coming from a girl his own age.

‘I place myself in your care, O my Kráľ,’ she told him. ‘I shall strive not to place an undue burden on you.’

‘You are no burden,’ Tomáš assured the girl kindly. ‘Anna was quite fond of you, as am I. You shall always have a home here.’

‘You are most kind, your Majesty,’ Viera courtesied.

Prisnec hardly knew what to make of himself in Viera’s presence, which was something of a new experience for him. Why, just a couple of weeks ago he’d had occasion to defend his baby sister Alžbeta Maria from a bunch of town bullies! He hadn’t even hesitated then, but jumped right into the fray. (He began to wonder later, while nursing an aching jaw and shoulder, whether a more pacific approach might have gotten him the same result.) And it wasn’t like he was exactly nervous around girls, either. He and Slávka Rychnovská got along together quite well. How was Viera so different?

Prisnec devoted a lot of time and energy to his attempt to understand what it was about Viera that made his heart skip and his face redden. True, her sable-and-olive colouring did set her apart, and markedly so, from the other girls at court. The same went for her tall, athletic frame. But that alone couldn’t account for the magnetic draw that this fascinating girl had on him!

For Prisnec, there was so much more to Viera than her looks!

Thirteen-year-olds in the grip of surging hormones aren’t necessarily the most impartial or rational of creatures, especially when it comes to evaluating the object of their affections. However, Prisnec was easily able to find ample justification for his infatuation. Prisnec quickly understood that her demure demeanour was completely sincere. She walked in small, measured steps with her hands folded diffidently in front of her; and she was polite and sweet-tempered and decent to everyone—even to the girls like Živana, Blažena and Kostislava who whispered unkind things about her when they thought she wasn’t listening. Prisnec didn’t think he’d ever heard one word of complaint from her.

‘Prisnec!’

The brown-haired lad turned, and with a queasy lurch he found himself face-to-face with Viera herself! Here she was indeed, every bit the meek young gentlewoman, yet confidently calling to him.

‘Would you come into town with me?’ she asked. ‘I have to fetch a few things from Anna’s, and Strýko Tomáš doesn’t want me going down there alone.’

Prisnec, dumbstruck, nodded his assent, and fell in beside her. She had actually asked him to go on a walk with her! Even though it was a short walk down the path to the river crossing and into the town, he couldn’t believe his luck!

‘I wonder why there are all these watchmen from the garrison on the streets,’ Viera questioned. ‘Surely there’s no call for so tight a patrol at this time of day.’

‘I’m not quite sure myself,’ Prisnec noted. ‘I think it might have something to do with Burgomistress Eufemie visiting the castle. But Eufemie doesn’t really rank so high as to need such an honour guard. Maybe I’ll have to ask dedo when I get back.’

He kept Viera company all the way down to Anna’s house. Once she was inside she went straightaway to the shelves and brought down a small pot full of some kind of fragrant oil. She also took down a few dried haulms of three or four different kinds of plants, which had once been in flower but were now preserved.

‘What are those?’ asked Prisnec, interested.

‘This one’s očianka,’ said Viera, holding up one of the plant’s leafy stalks with a cluster of small white orb-shaped flowers at the top. Then she held up an example of another one, a grassier herb with single white blooms on each stalk. ‘This one here’s kamilka. They’re for Ruslav’s eye. His left eye is blind from an accident long since, and it still gives him quite a bit of pain. This salve will help with the latter. And I know the recipe myself; I can make more of it from these plants.’

‘Teta Anna taught you?’

‘She taught me a lot of things.’ Viera’s voice took on a sad tone.

‘I’m sorry,’ Prisnec muttered, kicking himself inwardly. Why on earth had he mentioned Teta Anna, gone off to a cloister? That was stupid of him!

Viera shook her head, and gave Prisnec a look of reassurance. ‘It’s fine. Wherever it came from, if it’s within my power to ease someone’s pain, or make him happier or more comfortable—within acceptable bounds, of course—why shouldn’t I do it? Ruslav’s suffered much pain in this life.’

‘I suppose he has.’

‘I’ve got what I need from here. Walk me back?’

‘Sure.’

Prisnec matched Viera step for step back to the castle—no difficult task, because Viera kept to her usual steady, measured pace (although her legs were longer than his). When they’d come back within the courtyard, Viera flashed him a smile that made his heart soar.

‘Thank you for the walk, Prisnec,’ she told him.

‘Anytime!’

Graceful, mild, reserved—and possessing a heart of gold. Prisnec kept looking after her long after she’d left the bailey and withdrawn inside.

~~~​

A younger novice nun from the cloister at Krásny Brod arrived in Olomouc the following summer. She had arrived to one purpose: to inform the Kráľ that his sister had departed this life for the next. A self-inflicted injury had festered and taken a turn for the worse. The sister spoke in clear disapproval: such excesses were not proper to the faith, and particularly not if they needlessly shortened life. The Kráľ mourned his sister and friend deeply, but in the end he had to content himself with the thought that perhaps in her final suffering she had been shriven of all her past deeds, and was in a more fit position to enter the kingdom to come.

 

[Revan86]

THIRTY-FOUR
Prisnec and Viera
23 September 1098 – 17 June 1099​

The body of Metropolitan Horislav of Velehrad and All Moravia had lain upon the bier in the middle of the Cathedral throughout the all-night vigil already, as the mourners came to the funeral the following morning and filed by his coffin to pay their last respects. Horislav had served the Moravian kingdom faithfully and constantly, and had preached the True Faith throughout the kingdom without error or any whiff of personal scandal throughout. He had earned a blessed repose in a place where all sickness, sorrow and sighing had fled away.

But the same could not be said of the broader Church hierarchy under his omophor. The scandals of the Rychnovský family had not left the Church untouched, as Bishop Ignac’s dalliance with the Kňažná Volimíra of Užhorod had been too clear a proof. Many bishops—not only Ľuboš of Horné Sliezsko!—felt that the Church had grown far too lax with the nobles and their eating and drinking and distractions.

A zbor was held soon after Horislav had been buried in the Velehrad churchyard. Not few were the bishops who floated the idea of appointing Ľuboš as the next Metropolitan of the Moravian Church, but the Bishop of Maramoroš had objected mildly, pointing to the Silesian bishop’s advanced age. Ľuboš was not offended by his brother-bishop’s objections in the slightest: indeed, if anything, he seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to take on the extra responsibility.

‘What about Brother Ezana?’ asked Ľuboš. ‘He is a young man yet—strong and vigorous. He is also quite moderate and frugal in habits, as well as being forthright in speech.’

‘Perhaps a bit too forthright,’ said the Bishop of Boleslav wryly. ‘Ezana is overly bold with his tongue, overly quick to lash out, and overly eager to jump into controversy regardless of the personal costs. As a monk he’s far more pugilistic than pastoral. And then there’s the fact that he’s a foreigner…’

‘But not foreign-born. And maybe we could use a little bit of pugilism among the bishops,’ answered the Bishop of Milčané. ‘At the very least, we need a primate among us who will stand firm even amidst the sway of worldly luxury and the temptations of politics.’

‘Well, you’d certainly get that. Ezana is a firm believer in the salutary benefits of suffering. He’s not likely to be swayed by the creature comforts and spiritual laxity of our kings and nobles.’

In the end, the son of the pilgrims Berhanu and Lulit Sehul was confirmed by consensus of the Moravian Church zbor as the next Metropolitan. One thing was sure as the young, choleric Abyssinian was mitred and had the hands laid upon him by his brother-bishops. He was indeed sure to shake things up within the Church hierarchy!

~~~​

It was with some puzzlement that Viera went together with Prisnec out to the North Bridge outside Olomouc, where the two of them could be alone and undisturbed. Prisnec led her underneath the bridge’s western foot for an additional assurance of privacy. What would the king’s grandson possibly want with her? At last the delicate-featured, brown-haired young boy turned to her, took a deep breath inward, and spoke.

‘Viera… I think I love you.’

Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

‘What—what do you mean, “love” me?’ asked Viera. It was a good thing her complexion did a good job of hiding the flush that she knew was coming to her cheeks. ‘Don’t say things like that to me. You’re in the royal line, and I’m… I’m nobody.’

Prisnec shook his head slowly. ‘Not to me, you’re not.’

‘There’s nothing special about me,’ she warned him. She held up one hand next to his, showing the difference between Prisnec’s fairness and her own ochre hue. ‘I’m plain. I’m dun. I’m… too tall and ungainly. I wouldn’t make a very fitting wife for you, and as a sweetheart you’d soon get bored of me.’

Prisnec suddenly clasped Viera’s hands. She didn’t pull away, and the flush of her cheeks got hotter.

‘It’s not about how you look, Viera! Have you never notice how you turn heads just by walking by? Never marked the way the whole court heeds you when you speak? I suppose not, you must be used to all these things. But, Viera, in my eyes… you’re so graceful, so feminine, so kind… how could I not fall for you?’

‘… You do know I’ve got Jewish blood, right?’

‘And what difference does that make? So did Christ our God!’

Viera gulped. It was true that Prisnec was clever. And he was handsome. He was evidently a genius when it came to strategy—not that she had much to do with such things. And, self-beshedding though she was, she couldn’t help but admit to herself that his protestations of love for her were not only flattering, but tenderly welcome. She murmured one last feeble, half-hearted attempt to dissuade him. ‘And you know we’re kin…’

Prisnec did some inward calculations. Bohodar, Tomáš, Eustach, Jakub, Radomír, Pravoslav, Blažena—and the Viera for whom his beloved was named had been Blažena’s sister. He scoffed. ‘Kec. Seven generations back? Eight? Even by canon law it wouldn’t be incest between us, Viera!’

Viera’s head was caught in a strange, warm haze. She hardly knew what she was doing when she placed a hand on his cheek and brought it up toward hers. His lips were warm and passionate. The affectionate, heartfelt kiss between them lingered, and she savoured the taste after he parted from her. Viera twined her arms around Prisnec’s shoulders and held him tight. That warm hazy feeling tingled down her spine as he returned the embrace.

‘Prisnec… I never looked for this. Not to be a princess, not to be a queen.’

‘I know you didn’t.’ How could she have? She was purity and sweetness and modesty itself—of course she never looked for any such advantage for herself! ‘Would you still have me?’

Viera considered for a long moment, and then nodded. ‘If it’s you, Prisnec—you—yes, I will have you.’

~~~​

At the same time as these two children of the court happened to be making their first innocent steps toward love, the Kráľ was at his wit’s end. Tomáš felt terrible about having sent his sister, a close friend, off to become a nun… and then having heard about her death from a self-inflicted wound less than a year later. He knew as well that neither hanging prisoners, nor sending off family members into monastic seclusion, was the answer. As the king of a realm that was falling into laxity and moral decay, that he must examine his own behaviour.

He reflected that he ought to have been listening to his wife right along. Ricciarda put together the feasts he loved with such gusto and drive. And he knew why she did it, as well. Ricciarda loved him, in her own way, as he loved her. She wanted to please him, to make him happy. And yet she also cared about his health. At every turn, Ricciarda had gently and privately pointed out to him that he could stand to get more exercise, stand to lose a few pounds, not drink so much and not eat so much at one sitting. And now—Tomáš had to reflect with rue—the evidence of her worries was staring him in the face every time he looked toward his toes. His aching knees, his exhaustion, his protruberant belly, his thick jowls and several chins… they were making an impact on his life, and not for the better. Some ascetic discipline would do him some good.

Tomáš had been trying over the past several weeks to follow in the footsteps of the hesychasts of the desert and of Athos, and had been spending several weeks at a time in contemplative silence, combined with other, less conventional methods.

In order to give himself the sensation of being in the desert, he had converted a small room in the rear of the castle into a veritable sauna, with rocks fired to red heat and placed with tongs within a case where they would not burn the wooden frame of the room, and spent hours on end in the sweltering dry heat, sweating. He would go without meat for weeks, and eat only a small plate of vegetables and bread—one in the morning, and one in the evening, together with a glass, not of wine, but of small ale. He had taken to placing incense around his makeshift sweat lodge as well, to bring his senses upward to a higher plane. And he had taken to making a thousand iterations a day of the Jesus Prayer.

And it had worked. For a time.

He had felt an inexplicable lightness take hold of his body, and a feeling of indescribable joy take hold of him, as it were, from outside. Yet it was a fleeting sensation. Again he was weighed down in the grossness of his overample flesh, in the shortness of his own breath, in the stupefied muddle of his own mind. No matter what he tried else, he could not bring back the same sense.

It had not occurred to him that these ascetic disciplines are built up over a long time, with the guidance of an experienced monastic or a starec, and beginning with a state of obedience to said spiritual guide. Tomáš, who had never taken much interest before in such religious devotions, and who had no frame of reference to the relevant basics of ascesis, was like a child who wanders into the middle of a street play, and wants to know—

‘Dedo,’ Prisnec called gently to his grandfather. ‘May I have a word with you?’

Tomáš shook his jowls and turned to his grandson. ‘Of course, Prisnec!’

‘May I have your blessing to marry?’ the lad asked him.

‘That is rather the expectation, for the third-in-line to the throne,’ Tomáš smiled. ‘I had been thinking of arranging someone for you before too long, though from your tone it seems you’ve anticipated me. Who’s the lucky girl?’

Prisnec drew in a breath, and let it out softly. ‘Viera.’

‘Viera?’ Tomáš whistled and shook his head. He wasn’t quite sure what he thought about it. He knew as well as anyone that even though Prisnec and Viera shared the same surname, the relation was so far distant as to be immaterial. He also knew, however, the… social impediments that might arise for them. Tomáš knew fully well that Viera was Christian, and quite a proper one too, going to Liturgies and Vespers with the expected regularity. But it worried him how her parentage might be used against her, and might stir up ugly prejudices, especially as someone making a connexion so high up the line of succession.

‘You… don’t approve?’ asked Prisnec, a little apprehensive.

‘I didn’t say that, lad,’ Tomáš furrowed his brow. ‘Viera’s quite the charming young woman; my sister did quite well by her. I’m not surprised she caught your eye. But… Prisnec, consider your position, and hers. Are you sure you can handle the results?’

Prisnec met his grandfather’s eyes levelly.

‘I can handle an army of ten thousand in a flanking position from inferior ground,’ Prisnec told him. ‘I’m sure that I can handle, with God’s help, anything that might come between me and Viera.’

Prisnec’s sincerity won out over his grandfather’s cautions of class and blood. And Tomáš was, in the end, all too happy to bring together two earnest young people who desired to be together, and wish them the best.

‘Very well, Prisnec. If you desire Viera and Viera desires you, and you’re both willing to take the yoke on you, then I of all men shall not keep you apart.’

 

[Revan86]

THIRTY-FIVE
Infamous
9 June 1101 – 16 April 1105

I.
9 June 1101 – 1 December 1103

​

There was only one hint of something amiss, that day when the taciturn Alitz Mihajlian gave birth to her fifth child. The child had been named Tomáš. And the only thing amiss with him was that he had been born several ounces underweight. A scrawny, bony little child, little Tomáš had also been granted by God the swart colouring of his mother.

Bohodar hardly had time to greet his newborn, before he had to go on the march, once again, to the Levant. This time, Ẓâfir ibn Mizwâr ibn Baširah al-Hâfsi, the ‘Amîr of Crete, Chandax and Lesbos, was attacking the Empire in order to secure the Duchy of Thessaly: the very heartlands of Greece. In this effort he was joined by two other Sunnî wulâh in Mesopotamia: those of Sâmarrâ’ and Naynawâ. This time, Tomáš, Bohodar and Prisnec—three generations of Rychnovský men in the royal line—were going off to war, to defend the Empire.

‘What are the severané doing here?’ Prisnec wondered aloud.

Tomáš chuckled. ‘Don’t be surprised. The severané have been defending the Imperial City for hundreds of years, boy. I hear they even have their own mercenary corps, the Varangian Guard.’

‘Are we going to attack Crete, or Ẓâfir’s Mesopotamian allies?’

‘The latter,’ Tomáš said placidly. Prisnec gave his grandfather a sharp look. There didn’t seem to be much strategic sense in overlooking the enemy’s main stronghold and pursuing a couple of auxiliary forces on the other side of the Empire. On the other hand, he understood quite well that it had long been the Kráľ’s deeply-held wish to visit Syria, and so he did not question or gainsay his grandfather in front of his men.

And so when they came to their wonted port of Reka and boarded their ships, the Moravians set course not for Crete but for al-Lâḏiqîyyah. It was early June when they made port in Syria, and the temperature was sweltering hot. There was little shade upon the dusty road through the Syrian countryside, and Prisnec worried that his grandfather might become exhausted and succumb to the midday sun. But it seemed that the elderly king was made of sterner stuff than he appeared.

Inland they went, to the very marches of the Eastern Roman Empire where it bordered upon the territories of the Sunnî lords. They came to the village of as-Suẖnah, which was easy enough to spot even from a distance amid the sands. There was an oasis there, surrounded by lush palm trees which gloried in the celestial brightness and the attendant heat. Several of the pools were tinted in various bright colours, and steam rose from them. Little call for a hot spring in this season, though the cooler pools were much appreciated by the tired and thirsty Moravians.

The Moravians were not the only ones to encamp at as-Suẖnah. The army of the Ninevites, from Naynawâ, had come southwest in order to help their Cretan allies. When it was discovered that they were on opposite sides, the Moravians and the Ninevites squared up along a battle line. Tomáš was not about to let them leave the oasis without a fight!

The Ninevites were not many in number to begin with, and were already at a distinct disadvantage, fighting six hundred to the twelve thousand Moravians in that oasis. There was no time to call for reinforcements from the Cretans and Samarrans further south, and besides, there were the Byzantines and their Varangian allies descending in from the north to consider. It was hardly even a battle, and the Ninevite commander—being slightly more experienced in the field than Tomáš—soon saw that his cause was hopeless. He was sensible enough to surrender in exchange for guarantees of safe passage back to the Mesopotamian city he’d come from.

After taking the Ninevites’ surrender at as-Suẖnah and joining up with the Byzantine and Varangian forces, Tomáš split up his men between them.

‘Bohodar—you take half with you to the ships, and assist the Emperor in taking Hērakleio. I shall accompany the Varangians in the march south.’

Bohodar nodded his acknowledgement. ‘That is wise.’ The Emperor was not known for his patience, and Bohodar understood all too well that his own sang-froid would be of help in keeping him focussed on the main prize while more action might lie elsewhere. Bohodar then clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘And Prisnec? What are your orders for him?’

‘Prisnec,’ Tomáš asked the youngster. ‘Do you want to go with your father, or stay with me?’

‘Whichever you will, otec, dedo,’ the boy said meekly. ‘But if it’s all the same, I’d rather march south.’

If Tomáš could overlook Hērakleio in order to see the Levant he’d longed for, then Prisnec could overlook Hērakleio in order to satisfy his curiosity about the severané. He had heard tales of their savagery in battle, and wanted to see it for himself.

‘Very well,’ said his grandfather. ‘You’ll march with me.’

As it happened, they fell in with the Varangians and their leader, who was the Konung Aleksander Njudunge-Porvoo of the Danemark. Prisnec went slightly in awe of the Danish king, who was between the ages of himself and his father. From what he saw, the king was a genuinely warm-hearted man, a man of honour, who happily shared in whatever troubles or dearth or discomfort that his troops did. Prisnec was well aware of the troubled family history with the severané. But marching alongside these tall, blond-bearded Danes and their leader, Prisnec was positively impressed, and even learned some of their lingo on the march.

They marched down the coast of the Lebanon, and came to the port town of Ṣaydûn that August. That was the only port town then willing and able to support the combined armies of the Varangians and the Moravians. It was there that the Amazigh ‘Amîr of Crete himself chose to enter the ring.

‘You have no place in this fight,’ came the ‘Amîr’s herald. ‘Go back now to your northern lands, and look for what mercy Almighty Allâh shall have upon you.’

‘You may inform your lord,’ Aleksander answered, ‘that Danes do not beg for mercy.’

The battle was joined. The Cretans and Amazigh on one side were still heavily outnumbered – nearly ten to one. But with the ‘Amîr at their head, they could not back down. Aleksander leapt boldly into action, and Tomáš was content to allow the younger and more vigorous man to assume command.

Aleksander controlled the field, even though his only dedicated units were a single detachment of bændur—little use, sadly, against Ẓâfir ibn Mizwâr’s camel riders—and two flanking rows of archers. Prisnec at once saw the weakness of the middle of the front line, and rode out boldly in front of Aleksander to meet the charge of the Cretans, sword flashing in his hand.

A herald rode in at the rear of the enemy army, and the message he brought sent waves of confusion rippling outward from the rear. Prisnec fancied he heard the troops invoking the name of the ‘Amîr’s father, though that couldn’t be right. The ‘Amîr himself—yes, Prisnec caught sight of him now, in his coned helmet and thick brown beard!—looked particularly distraught at whatever tidings the herald had brought him.

Prisnec spurred his horse forward and charged madly at the Amazigh ‘Amîr. Almost too late Ẓâfir ibn Mizwâr turned to face him, and barely deflected away from his body what would have been a killing blow. Prisnec turned for another pass at the enemy commander. The red tabard of the Moravian and the navy-blue cloak of the Amazigh were blown by the dusty wind as they faced each other across a thin stretch of no-man’s-land, with the soldiers clashing all around them. Prisnec pointed the tip of his blade at the ‘Amîr, and again spurred his horse to a gallop. Ẓâfir did the same. There was the pass. And there was the clash. There was blood upon the Moravian’s sword-edge, and Ẓâfir ibn Mizwâr somehow looked a bit… lopsided in his saddle.

Then Prisnec turned and saw it. He had severed the ‘Amîr’s left arm just above the elbow in passing. The lord of Crete blanched with the pain, but did not cry out. Two of his retainers had to fetch him down from his horse and bear him off to the rear of the line. He was out of the battle entirely.

It was quickly ascertained once the battle was over that the herald had brought news of the fall of Hērakleio to the Emperor’s troops (with Bohodar keeping him on task and focussed, no doubt) and the capture of the ‘Amîr’s son Mizwâr ibn Ẓâfir. With his left arm gone and with his eldest son taken hostage, the ‘Amîr’s hopes of taking Thessaly were completely dashed, and he was forced to a parley.

~~~​

On the return voyage home, Aleksander sought out Prisnec, gripped him solidly by the arm and hugged him close, kissing him once on each cheek the way one might do a brother.

‘Happy are the Moravians,’ the Varangian told him, ‘to have a prince who can fight like a Dane.’

Prisnec returned the embrace warmly, and cherished the compliment. Indeed, after having spent time among the Danes and admiring their hardiness and fortitude in battle, he could think of no higher praise.

Ordinarily, upon such a glorious return home, Tomáš would have called for a feast. However, he was still deeply remorseful for the outburst which had caused the deaths of five prisoners, and still deeply disturbed by Anna’s death. Partying wasn’t high upon his list of priorities. Instead, he spent the time with Jaromil Žatecký, a vassal of a similar turn of mind to himself. He felt that this friendship, as much as any other he’d cultivated over the course of his kingship, was one to the benefit of his soul. Jaromil encouraged the king to perform works of mercy, to give alms to the poor and to forgive his prisoners, and in doing so Tomáš found the burdens of rule at his advanced age to be much relieved.

Alžbeta Maria was given in marriage to a Brythonic king of Cerniw, Meriasek mab Ricat. The ceremonies were brief—as indeed was the king himself. Despite his short stature, Meriasek at once engendered in Tomáš a deep sense of trust. The little man was an easygoing soul who said what he thought, and he thought himself lucky indeed to be getting so fine a young bride. For her part, Alžbeta Maria didn’t seem quite so enthused about her new groom.

The same could not be said of Viera upon Prisnec’s return. Even before he came through the gate of Olomouc Castle, Viera had already heard the tales—which had been exaggerated and multiplied many times over in the course of the telling between Ṣaydûn and there—of how Prisnec had bested the ‘Amîr of Crete in single combat, and taken a trophy of the Hagarene’s left arm. By the time she heard it, it was as though Prisnec had charged straight into the enemy line himself and carved a swathe through five hundred Saracens to reach the ‘Amîr.

To say that Viera was impressed would have been an understatement. She yielded herself enthusiastically to her heroic husband’s kisses and fond embraces. She stirred and echoed his passion in the bedroom, as much of her caramel skin pressing up against as much of his fair skin as possible. It surprised no one when it was announced that spring of 1103 that she was with child.

The young girl that she bore forth was named Karolína. That had been Prisnec’s idea, not hers—though she preferred the sound of Karolína to that of Prisnec’s other proposal, Držislava. Again, as she put it—she had never sought to be a princess, and never sought to be queen. It seemed rather presumptuous to the naturally modest and retiring Viera to give her daughter a name meaning, literally, ‘queen’. However, she couldn’t deny that the name fit. Viera soon found her little one was quite the demanding (if nonetheless endearing) little tyrant, and she seemed to have a keen understanding of how to get what she wanted as quickly as possible.

Ricciarda had been getting thinner—more so than usual—for some time before her husband had gone off to war. When Tomáš returned, she looked almost like a shell of her former self, and this was one of the other reasons why he had not arranged a feast. Even in her weakened state she would have insisted on seeing to the arrangements herself, and Tomáš could not allow that. For months that autumn he stayed by his wife’s bedside, even as his granddaughter-in-law was giving birth to their great-grandchild. Again it took Tomáš by surprise how deeply he cared for his wife. There hadn’t been any sparks or grand passions between them, but as she lay there in bed, with her slender, bony hand in his—he found that that didn’t matter. And he could tell from the way she held his eyes that she felt the same way. She was simply happy to be together with him, now, at the end.

The midwife had the newborn Karolína brought in to see her great-grandmother. Ricciarda traced the cheek of the young child, and it was clear that she was happy and grateful to have met her, but by that time she didn’t even have the strength to hold the baby in her malnourished arms. It was only three days after Viera had given birth to Karolína that Ricciarda passed from this life into the next. But she died peaceful and content, with her husband at her side until the very end.

 

[alscon]

The Moravians' reputation in the Middle East keeps growing, it seems. The vultures surrounding Byzantium clearly didn't anticipate either the Moravians nor the Danes. Good riddance.

And as one queen departs, Prisnec and Viera herald that the future monarch too is set for a happy couple - despite not fitting the dynasty's apparent preferred type.

 

[Revan86]

The Moravians' reputation in the Middle East keeps growing, it seems. The vultures surrounding Byzantium clearly didn't anticipate either the Moravians nor the Danes. Good riddance.

LOL, yup. I knew there had to be a reason they kept all those Vikings around.

And as one queen departs, Prisnec and Viera herald that the future monarch too is set for a happy couple - despite not fitting the dynasty's apparent preferred type.

Hmm... a brunette who's Prisnec's own age, rather than an older blonde? Dodgy move, that.

Sounds like it could be tricky, but I'm a believer. It could work between 'em.

 

[Revan86]

II.
5 January 1104 – 16 April 1105​

It was over sixteen lonely, mournful months after Ricciarda’s death, before Tomáš had a heart in him to hold any sort of festivities—and that, one prescribed by the Church, on Pascha. Upon the announcement of this feast, Tomáš had pronounced a few words from Scripture once Metropolitan Ezana was finished blessing the eggs, meats, cheeses and sweets that festooned the tables of the high hall.

‘To everything there is a season,’ Tomáš quoted, ‘and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’

The king had memorised this passage from the Hebrew Scriptures primarily for Ezana’s benefit, as the Abyssinian Metropolitan had taken a somewhat disapproving interest in Tomáš’s… less-conventional religious devotions. The young Metropolitan did clearly approve of the king’s pious quotation from Eccelsiastes, but he was not particularly moved one way or the other by it.

The king had begun the Paschal feast in a spirit of moderate joviality and holy joy in the knowledge of the Risen Christ, and the assurance that all things would be made new in Him. But the feast quickly took on a life of its own. However well-intentioned Tomáš was as a host, the feast itself quickly became exemplary of the gaudy excess that had taken hold of Moravia’s nobility.

Tomáš himself was deep in discussion with his vassal Hrabě Zvonimír of Znojmo. The young nobleman had been at work for months in Užhorod, and although he assured Tomáš that all of his dealings were honourable and above-board, still the king thought it best not to inquire too closely. He was all but certain that, in Zvonimír’s dealings with the nobles and clergy among the White Croats, there was a good deal more under-the-table quid pro quo than he let on—possibly even blackmail and extortion. However, it was in a good cause.

‘My liege, I think about three-fifths of the noblemen and clergy, and four-fifths of the burgomasters and village headmen, are amenable to my… proposals. In general, the White Croat peasantry are eager for any streamlining of the taxation process if it will mean an overall lightening of their burdens, and with the burgomasters it was all a matter of appealing to their thirst for more regular fair-days in trade with Bratislava and Praha.’

‘I hope you didn’t step too far out of bounds with the nobles and the clergy,’ Tomáš raised a sceptical brow toward Zvonimír. ‘I don’t want any nasty legal tangles or grievances once you’ve finished our little streamlining project.’

‘You wound me, O Kráľ!’ Zvonimír sat back a bit. ‘I am nothing if not discretion itself. A solid majority of the White Croat noblemen are agreeable; all that’s left for you to do is to, ah… dot your “i’s” with our friend Siloš over there. It will be just a formality, I’m sure.’

Tomáš glanced over at his diminutive vassal. Volimíra was notable by her absence—ever since she had given birth to Bishop Ignac’s son, so the king had been informed, she had been kept securely under lock and key in Sariš. Siloš was not known to be a forgiving man.

Today, however, he seemed to be among the better-behaved among his guests. There was belching and raucous laughter; the smell of strong wine was pungent upon the lips of nearly all the guests. Tomáš noted, to his chagrin, that female courtiers who ought to have known better were making shameful displays of their persons, and male ones who ought to have known better were cheering them. The other two exceptions seemed to be Prisnec and Viera, who were sitting cosily together in a secluded corner, lost in each other in a world exclusive to themselves, with only their eyes eloquently speaking between them—with Viera’s hand upon a belly already swelling with their second child.

But—

‘Actually, milord, we do have a problem.’

‘What is it, Zvonimír?’

‘We’re fast running out of the good stuff. I’ve sampled what remains—I’m sad to say that it’s gone off. Soured to vinegar, the whole lot.’

Tomáš stroked his short beard. ‘And did you dispose of it?’

‘I already took the liberty of doing so, sir.’

‘Come with me, Zvonimír.’

Tomáš led the šafár out of the main feasting hall and downcellar, to where the bad barrels of wine had been—now only a long, empty alcove. But Tomáš made his way through to the back and fiddled with a small lever on the end of the alcove, which opened up to the rear. The alcove wall swung away to reveal behind it another row of barrels—completely full, and still completely good.

‘I’ve been saving some of the real good vintage for a special occasion.’

Zvonimír gave his liege a look of admiration. ‘And you kept these barrels hidden even from me? I’m impressed, sire. I’ll see to it that the servants get these sent up to the hall straightaway.’

Tomáš wondered about the wisdom of sending up yet more wine toward a party that was growing more and more raucous and raunchy by the minute. Viera and Prisnec had already retired, he saw. But he needed to get to Siloš before the night was out, and he needed Siloš well-disposed. And if that meant breaking open some of the strong unwatered stuff for the other guests as well as him—so be it.

Tomáš made sure to seat himself next the knieža of Užhorod for the rest of the evening. While next to him, Tomáš engaged him in conversation on all manner of subjects, though never kept the conversation too far from Sariš and the current situation in the White Croat lands. The evident concern was enough for Siloš to notice, though at present he didn’t suspect anything too untoward.

‘You are kept very well-informed of what goes on in my lands. And of the history as well,’ said Siloš Bijelahrvatskić. ‘I’ve known you a long time, though it has been awhile since the last feast I invited you to. It’s good to know that your wits haven’t dulled in the years since.’

Tomáš gave a slight tip of the head in modest acknowledgement.

Siloš sighed. ‘Oh, alright, very well. Implement your little tax regime on my land if you wish. Saves my šafár the hassle, doesn’t it? Just take care not to dip your ladle in my bowl.’

Tomáš shook hands with the diminutive knieža. ‘I’m happy we could come to an agreement.’

The king again surveyed his feast. Having begun in moderation, it had since devolved into a drunken, uninhibited rumpus. There was little else left for it but to join in, and revel in what was sure to be the infamy. Tomáš cried out: ‘Another round! This week has just begun!’

~~~​

Wulfgifu went to the one place where she felt comfortable… the juniper grove. There she could be alone and think. There were no trees here. No real trees, anyway. These scrubby, stunted, hardy little waist-high juniper bushes were the closest thing on these God-forsaken islands Wulfgifu could find to trees. She found their fragrance soothing, but they provided no shelter from the ever-present sea winds or from the storms which blew up every day.

The junipers were the only things Wulfgifu loved here. Nearly everything else, she hated.

She hated the cold. She hated the wind. She hated the bare, windswept, grimacing rocks. She hated the dull, grey fishing villages which were the only settlements along the shore. She hated the leering, groping fishermen who lived there. She hated the way they talked, the way they walked, the stupid way they carried on as though they couldn’t understand her.

Wulfgifu walked again to her junipers. She rested a hand on her womb. Within there lay her child… and Haukur’s. Haukur, the one these islanders called ‘jarl’, had been the one to stop his men from stripping and raping her on the spot when she’d been caught. He had made her as comfortable as he could in her thrall’s state, and been the only one here to show her any scrap of kindness. And—God forgive her!—she had responded with her body. She had been thirsting for kindness, and she had taken that which Haukur offered her, even though it came with… this little complication. Haukur had a wife, of course, and several other bedmates besides her. To him, she was just another thrall. And his wife merely treated her with the contemptuous disdain she treated all of Haukur’s other women: neither Wulfgifu nor her child were any threat to her position as his wife and the mother of his two legitimate children.

She came out to the junipers when she was feeling particularly forlorn and miserable. The junipers reminded her, however distantly and feebly, of the woodlands of home… now nothing more than a fading dream, which might as well be worlds away. Her father, her mother, her sisters… were they all still alive, after the raid? She only prayed that they were safe and well, and that they had escaped. At least they hadn’t been taken here with her, placed in this frigid island-wide cage.

Wulfgifu flung herself down underneath the junipers and wept. She wept for her family—whether they were alive or dead, she didn’t know—and also for the unborn babe she was carrying, the fruit of a union of sin and despair. What would happen to the child inside her? Was a thrall’s fate also awaiting? Was there any hope of deliverance? She prayed to the same God who had delivered Paul from prison—not for herself, but for her unborn daughter, who would have her face and Haukur’s.

 

[Revan86]

THIRTY-SIX
Daughter of the North
21 July 1105 – 2 June 1107

‘You named him what?’ asked Aleksander.

‘Radomír,’ Prisnec repeated. ‘His name is Radomír.’

‘Same name as the one who died in battle against us? And later was exhumed by a resentful queen? Same name as the one who died in agony, possessed by devils?’

‘Same name.’

Aleksander, king of the Danemark, gave a low chuckle and a slow shake of his head. ‘I always knew you were a bold one, Moravian. But this choice of yours borders on foolhardiness—it’s tempting fate. What if he should meet a similar end to those of his namesakes?’

‘It is not the name which determines one’s fate,’ Prisnec answered Aleksander. ‘Not any more so than the stars, for those who believe such foolishness. Each of us makes our own choices, whether to obey God or to disobey Him, whether to love or to hate. For both Viera and me, it is important to keep the family legacy alive. Radomír is an important name to us.’

‘Whatever you say,’ the Danish king shook his head again. ‘Still seems a mistake to me.’

‘And were you not named for a king who died young, of grief, in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar?’

At that Aleksander roared with laughter and gave Prisnec a heavy swat on the back. ‘You’re too clever by half, you are! And as quick with a blade as you are with your tongue. Moravia’d best be well prepared when you ascend to her throne, my friend—she’ll be in for a reign full of glory!’

‘May that be for a long time yet,’ Prisnec said piously, crossing himself.

Aleksander rubbed his tow-blond beard thoughtfully. ‘Say, friend—what would you think of accompanying me on another little journey over the whale-road? Not likely one so balmy as in our defence of Miklagård, and not likely one with as many opportunities for glory in battle. There’s more likely to be cheap and barter on it, but it might not be without profit for you. What say you?’

‘That is indeed a kindly offer. Where are you bound?’

‘North,’ said the Danish king. ‘Across the North Sea. The kings of Skotland and Island have discovered new sea routes west to new lands—even a land far over the seas which is full of wine-berries, whose coasts are teeming with cod! They may just be blowing their antlers the way Eriksen was, but if this Vinland really exists, it may be worth a diplomatic visit to those islands. I’d be grateful for the company of a trusted man on the voyage.’

‘As well as a sturdy blade-arm watching your back,’ Prisnec said shrewdly. ‘It sounds like you don’t fully trust these islanders, and are looking for some added insurance.’

‘I’ve told you this before—you’d make a good Dane,’ Aleksander told him. ‘There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes!’

Prisnec considered, but he had already made up his mind. He gave a nod. ‘It would indeed be a great honour for me to travel with you again.’

‘Good. Make your preparations—we shall leave together from the port at Lybæk in two months.’

~~~

The memory is a strange thing. Long afterward, Prisnec would have vague impressions of the voyage from the mid-Danish town of Lybæk on the Baltic coast. He remembered drinking and laughing together with Aleksander, watching from the prow of the longship as it plied the waves through the Kattegat and the Skagerrak into the great sea beyond. He remembered landing upon several lonely outcrops of islands in the north, with their rocky juts of shoreline and their dustings of grass, upon which flocks of small but necessarily-hardy sheep would feed. He remembered visiting several long-halls of the local potentates and feasting with ale and lean mutton.

But the most vivid memory he would recall throughout his life was his first encounter with the little girl who would become his ward.

He was in the hall of the jarl of Føroyar, Haukur ‘Half-Dane’ Svavarsson. His impression of the handsome Faroese jarl was ambivalent. On the one hand, there was no impeaching his hospitality: he furnished forth a great feast for them, with veal and lamb both, and with fine mead. It was also clear to Prisnec that he was practised at containing what might otherwise have been a formidable temper—and in a Northman that was something to admire. But he seemed just a little too eager to impress, just a little too free with his tongue. His avid descriptions of the forests and hills and sheepfolds of this Vinland, as though he’d been there himself, were just a little too exaggerated to be real. Aleksander must have been aware that Haukur was snowing him, because although he listened politely and nodded along, Prisnec could tell exactly the moment where he lost interest.

And then Prisnec was taken aside by a young woman with cropped red hair and a round face. By her simple flaxen dress she was a thrall, and both by the bundle she carried in her arms and by the stains upon the breast it was clear that she was a nursing mother. She spoke to him in some kind of German, similar to the nether dialects he’d heard in Lybæk… It sounded strangely familiar to Prisnec’s ears.

‘Ic bidde gé,’ she began politely, ‘Sindon gé frams Þeódland?’

Prisnec regarded her intently, and then answered her in the dialect of German which he knew, hoping that he had interpreted her right. ‘Ic bim fon Merihhon—Wendland,’ he corrected himself after seeing her puzzled expression. A certain spark caught in her eye, and she bowed her head in abject supplication.

‘Eallswá hit gé líefaþ, ic frigne gé, nim mínre dehter weg miþ éow!’

Even if he didn’t understand what she said, when she held out to him in proffering hands the bundle that she carried, her meaning couldn’t have been any clearer. In front of Prisnec, in the hands of the woman, was a tiny, fair little infant with coppery-brown hair and curious hazel eyes. He looked from daughter to mother, and asked the simple and obvious question.

‘Wárfuri?’

‘Tó læt for mig,’ the thrall-woman answered ruefully. ‘Ge-hwæðere for hire—niht. Mæge héo grówe hæle in ánum beteran lande.’

The bitter, grieving tone in this woman’s voice spoke it all for her. She held out no hope for herself. But for her little girl… she felt her babe deserved more than she could give her, deserved more than the life of a mere thrall. And it was clear she had seen very little of kindness from the Faroese here. Thrusting her only child, the most precious thing she had, into the arms of a stranger was as much an act of desperation as that which his beloved Viera described her father as having done for her when she was of that age.

‘Hwé heizzit siu?’

‘Alswit.’

‘Unti hwé heizzit ira muoter?’

‘Wulfgifu.’

Prisnec gently took the baby from her hands and murmured: ‘Alswit Wulfgifustohter.’

The mother’s face took on a grave, cloudy aspect roiling with powerful emotions. She choked on a sob and could not hold back tears. Prisnec laid a comforting hand on her arm.

‘Ic swere, siu wirdit guoti farsorget sín.’

~~~​

As Prisnec might well have guessed, Viera was quite smitten with this new addition to their family.

‘What an adorable little saska!’ Viera crooned. ‘Of course we’ll take good care of her! Alswit, you said her name was? In Moravian that would be—Alšvýdka? But—no. Of course we’ll raise her to speak according to her mother’s tongue.’

‘I’d say she’s as much severanka as saska,’ Prisnec noted. ‘Her mother wasn’t very forthcoming, but it was fairly obvious who the father was—and he’s Faroese.’

‘And he was agreeable to you taking her away?’

‘Of course. In fact, I think Haukur Half-Dane might have been fairly relieved to have her taken away. Even girls got out of wedlock can be troublesome in the severan lands.’

‘God has delivered you to us,’ Viera was murmuring sweetly to the baby girl, who was burbling happily in her new foster-mother’s warm embrace. ‘Yes He has, Švýdka! And we shall be grateful unto Him, and we shall always love you!’

~~~​

‘You really ought to take better care of yourself, sire,’ said Heník.

‘I do take care of myself, though it doesn’t really matter that much now,’ said Tomáš forbearingly, setting down the glass of South Moravian wine and folding his hands across his rotund belly. ‘I’m getting old. Slowing down. I won’t be much longer for this world, and must now look to the next. I hope I am leaving a stronger kingdom to Bohodar and Prisnec than I gained from my father.’

‘More secure in its laws, at any rate,’ Heník had to agree, though his face twinged sadly at the thought of his liege and friend departing this world. ‘Siloš gave us surprisingly little trouble over the integration of Užhorod, and even the Magyars are now forced to admit that they’re not getting it back.’

And that was true enough. So long had the Bijelahrvatskići been allied to the Rychnovských, and so unshakeable was that family’s rule over the Lower Beskids, that Hungary’s right to the territory had been nigh forgotten.

‘Now—sire, about the other matters I have… disclosed to you.’

‘I have not forgotten them.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you had,’ Heník spread his hands. ‘However, if your heirs are to make use of them…’

Tomáš shook his jowls. ‘For one thing: I shall not shame Winnie in such a manner. No one but us two need know of her… inclinations. As to Volimíra, her role in the plot against my Maria has already been dealt with; we can put that behind us. I see no possible angle we can take against Bretislav at the moment; all his influence is wielded through his wife. And as for Zvonimír Pavelkov and his Greek mistress…’

‘Yes?’

‘You may do with that information what you please,’ Tomáš shrugged. ‘I have no plans to act upon it at present. Were I to make it known now, it would only stir up trouble for Bohodar.’

‘You may not avoid that, sire,’ Heník warned. ‘Bohodar is a capable strategist, that is certain—may the youngest of his brood become so as well!—but he has… difficulties in keeping his house in order.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked the Kráľ suspiciously.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied his spymaster. ‘Nothing I can prove as yet, anyway. I’m merely commenting on your son’s character. I fear he may be too mild and easygoing for the burden you’re laying upon him.’

‘Be that as it may, it shall still be his burden to bear.’

 

[filcat]

‘Same name.’
Aleksander, king of the Danemark, gave a low chuckle and a slow shake of his head. ‘I always knew you were a bold one, Moravian. But this choice of yours borders on foolhardiness—it’s tempting fate. What if he should meet a similar end to those of his namesakes?’
‘It is not the name which determines one’s fate,’ Prisnec answered Aleksander. ‘Not any more so than the stars, for those who believe such foolishness. Each of us makes our own choices, whether to obey God or to disobey Him, whether to love or to hate.(...)’

"for those who believe such foolishness" Bruh... Epic burn on the king of danemark.

Though, initially was about to write with a different perspective as soon as reading the above interesting conversation, to note the king of danemark again bruh for talking with that hyper-famous name, while reminding what happened in Thebes and in Persepolis;
however;

‘Whatever you say,’ the Danish king shook his head again. ‘Still seems a mistake to me.’
‘And were you not named for a king who died young, of grief, in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar?’

...however, fortunately Prisnec is a learned one as well as being a conscience bloke, stated the obvious elephant in the hall right away.


Side Note:
Yeah,
there is chad,
then there is turbo-chad and/or mega-chad,
but there is only one Nebuchadnezzar (or two, lol).

...and yet there is the ultima-chad Chadwick Boseman (sorely missed)

Edit: Corrected semantic mistake.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Thank you for the updates. Thank you for the research on dates. I am sure that CK3 will have Easter eggs that provide rare clues to seasoned players. Bold prediction: Bohodar will have a shorter reign than his father.

 

[alscon]

Well, looks like all that adventuring with Aleksander will be a sweet memory for Prisnec - and he also got a reminder of that journey to take home, one that will hopefully outlast him so that he may always recall these days.

Days he might look back on as fondly as Moravia as a whole to the reign of Tomáš. A reign where your king does little more than throw feast after feast may be a good sign to judge the country's prosperity - as long as it's a king who actually wants to rule, which this one surely was.

 

[Revan86]

"for those who believe such foolishness" Bruh... Epic burn on the king of danemark.

Though, initially was about to write with a different perspective as soon as reading the above interesting conversation, to note the king of danemark again bruh for talking with that hyper-famous name, while reminding what happened in Thebes and in Persepolis;
however;

...however, fortunately Prisnec is a learned one as well as being a conscious bloke, stated the obvious elephant in the hall right away.

With a father (and a grandmother) like his, Prisnec would not be allowed to leave adulthood without the rudiments of grounding in the classics, martial character or not...

Side Note:
Yeah,
there is chad,
then there is turbo-chad and/or mega-chad,
but there is only one Nebuchadnezzar (or two, lol).

...and yet there is the ultima-chad Chadwick Boseman (sorely missed)

Indeed. Memory eternal!

Thank you for the updates. Thank you for the research on dates. I am sure that CK3 will have Easter eggs that provide rare clues to seasoned players. Bold prediction: Bohodar will have a shorter reign than his father.

My pleasure! Although I'm sure old HK-47 would have preferred another use for his protocols...

And yes, that would seem to be a fairly safe prediction. Kings who are 53 when they ascend to the throne rarely have 40-year rules, though there are always exceptions.

Well, looks like all that adventuring with Aleksander will be a sweet memory for Prisnec - and he also got a reminder of that journey to take home, one that will hopefully outlast him so that he may always recall these days.

Days he might look back on as fondly as Moravia as a whole to the reign of Tomáš. A reign where your king does little more than throw feast after feast may be a good sign to judge the country's prosperity - as long as it's a king who actually wants to rule, which this one surely was.

I see someone has been reading the prospective interlude title! (Either that, or has already taken account, careful reader that he is, of the foreshadowing that I have already done prior to this.)

Well, well, not all ages can be golden, and not all Englands can be merrie. For every party there must be a hangover, etc. That said, there are bright spots, too, in the age to come!

Also, I believe that the Magpie of Foreshadowing is telling me that there needs to be a map post at this particular juncture, so...

EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF TOMÁŠ 1. RYCHNOVSKÝ​

Hungary has been very neatly trisected by my vassals, in connivance with the Eastern Romans. Gonna have to put a stop to that and soon...​

Cherven Cities is no longer the monster that it once was, and of course now that they're Christian they've stopped continuously raiding my northern border and stealing all my sheeps. That said, their kings are dodgy fellows. Best keep a close watch on them...​

Western Europe seems to be congealing again, which is fun to see. East Francia has managed to gather in most of its strays, though that southeast still looks fairly disjointed. The British Isles are still a bloody mess, as is southern Europe (ERE excepted).
​

It's a chaotic world, I'm just in the middle of it all...​

 

[Silverio90]

Bordergore… bordergore everywhere

 

[Revan86]

Bordergore… bordergore everywhere

That is the nature of the game! But yes, it does tend to make those maps a bit of an eyesore...

 

[Revan86]

INTERLUDE IX.
The Six Lesser Kings
26 November 2020

A gust of wind blew open the flap of the yurt, and into the round frame with its cosy puffs of hide-wrapped felt between, ran a teenage girl. Her amber eyes glimmered with sincerity and her long, mobile mouth was open and puffing with recent exertion. Even though she was drawn in the japonský animovaný style, great care had been placed on the subtle mix of emotions on her face: worry, tenderness, a certain openness and naïveté.

She dusted off the front of her riding-jacket and the front of her robe, whose hem and silver ornaments had been drawn and animated with exquisite care. She knelt upon an animal-skin mat, smoothing out the hem of her robe as she did so, and looked across the crackling fire in the midst of the tent at the figure of an old woman seated opposite. The old woman was busily lacing up a small leather drum to a hoop frame.

‘Bölcs-Nő,’ the girl spoke to her, bowing reverently. ‘Pavel’s taken him—Pavel’s taken Bohodar. Please, with your great power, I beg you to help me!’

The diminutive Bölcs-Nő, her robe covered with feathers, beads and animal talismans, turned toward the girl, her long, wrinkled nose with a large visible mole on the arch standing out amid a face etched out of wrinkles. Her face was kindly, and her voice was patient. She continued to lace the stretched hide to the hoop frame as she began to speak.

‘Czenzi—I know. The spirit of Turla has already told me. When the Long-Tailed One and the Large-Horned One speak to me now, their voices quiver with anger, fear and hatred. But they also grow weak. It is difficult for one from the world of men to touch the world of spirits anymore, so consumed have our people become with building kingdoms and cities and armies. The Long-Tailed One is chased out of his forest, and the Large-Horned One is pushed into the east, and they grow bitter. Perhaps they will become demons of hate. But as for me—you see how old and crooked I am. Not that we old folk can’t be useful! But what is it you expected of me? Did you want me, perhaps, to change into a swift horse, and ride down Pavel for you? Or to change into a sharp-taloned hawk, and peck out his eyes?’

Czenzi opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it and bowed her head, chastened. The old woman smiled kindly, leaving the fire to flicker and crackle for the space of some seconds. Bölcs-Nő stirred the pot on the fire in front of her before she spoke again.

‘In truth, I’m not sure myself what may be done. Princes cherish their swords, and they clutch their gold close to them, as though these things can help them. Maybe it was always this way, and I’m just looking back on the past with a foolish old woman’s vision.’

‘What can we do—if the power of nature can’t help me, and if the spirits have become demons? I can’t rescue Bohodar on my own. And he may just be our best hope for peace!’

‘Oh?’ said Bölcs-Nő. ‘Are you sure of that? Actually, one thing you did say is true—you can’t rescue Bohodar on your own, and you will need help. Mine—possibly—and others’. But just as you can’t rescue him alone, neither can Bohodar bring peace alone. Both of you will have to work for that, and that’s work that will last a lifetime. But I think you’re up to it. You love him a great deal, don’t you?’

A delicate blush bloomed upon Czenzi’s tan cheeks, and soon after that a flicker of irritation crossed her brow. ‘I never said that. Did the spirits tell you?’

Bölcs-Nő let out a great big belly laugh at that, her mouth wide with two long rows of large white teeth. ‘You tell me that yourself, child—just by being here! Now, you did ask—very properly and politely—for my help. Let’s see what tricks this old woman still has up her sleeve…’

~~~​

Ed Grebeníček paused the video, which was on an old LaserDisc. The cover lay open on the table, and it featured the title 《鵲のセレナーデ》. In the international release, Серенада Страки, Bohodar was voiced by Moravian actor Roman Luknár, Czenzi by Carpathian actress Anna Marie Cseh, and Bölcs-Nő by Carpathian-Américaine actress Eva Gábor in one of her final roles.

‘Studio Scirocco released Serenade of the Magpie, directed by master animator Miyazaki Hayao, in 1994. This was at a time when the Hungarian nationalists were making direct overtures to the Empire of Japan, using appeals to Turanist ideology, to support their bid for independence from the Carpathian Popular Republic—Serenade was widely believed to be a strident appeal for peace in Carpathia, in addition to featuring Scirocco’s usual environmental themes. We’ll keep watching the rest if you want to after class, but for now I just wanted to ask… what do you think?’

‘Well, it’s Miyazaki!’ protested Petronila Šimkovičová. ‘What’s not to like? The animation is gorgeous and the storyline is amazing!’

‘Sure,’ Ľubomír Sviták answered her. ‘That kind of goes without saying. But you have to admit that some of the elements here are kind of… anachronistic? Were the Hungarians going to the táltos and worshipping nature-spirits at that late date?’

‘Maybe that’s Miyazaki drawing a connexion between his own shintô themes and the táltos. I’m not sure it’s meant to be taken literally,’ Cecilia Bedyrová answered thoughtfully. ‘It certainly seems to be a direct rebuke to the Turan-adjacent nationalists—to show the bölcs nő as an advocate for peace-building and a well-wisher to Czenzi’s romance with Bohodar 3.!’

‘Hmm…’ Ľubomír still looked a bit skeptical. ‘I still have difficulty believing the Hungarians would be herding flocks of cattle as nomads and padding about in yurts in the twelfth century. The ninth century, maybe, but…’

‘Actually,’ Ed Grebeníček interposed, ‘that actually might not be as anachronistic as you might think, though certainly Miyazaki added his own flourishes. We know that Czenzi’s grandfather had been a follower of the táltos. And Árpád Czenzi’s band of Eastern Mögyers, who stayed in the Nistru Basin, were also nomadic quite a lot longer than their sedentary Slavicised cousins to the west. It’s actually a fairly believable detail that they would have lived in yurts.’

‘But why would Miyazaki make a movie about a Moravian ruler?’ asked Jolana.

‘Excellent question,’ Grebeníček smiled. ‘Does anyone think they have an answer for her?’

Petra looked toward Jolana. ‘Well… Miyazaki’s a leftist, and something of a pacifist as well. I’d imagine that a king like Bohodar letopisár might have appealed to him. Although he was a soldier in some of his grandfather’s wars, Bohodar 3. never declared or even joined a single war in his entire reign. There isn’t even a record of so much as a peasant revolt. Moravia enjoyed a good 50 years of uninterrupted peace under both Bohodar letopisár and his son Vojtech 1., lasting into the reign of Želimír.’

‘But then why is he called one of the “six lesser kings” in our text, then?’ asked Dalibor.

‘Funny how those historiographical evaluations change,’ Grebeníček observed. ‘In his own time, Bohodar was considered to be a rightly-guided, wise lawgiver and a most clement keeper of God’s peace. Throughout the 1200s and 1300s the third Kráľ Bohodar was considered the kingly ideal, and monastic historians tended to be distrustful of the more warlike leaders. It was only in the 1400s that Kaloján chrabrý’s star began to rise, and Bohodar letopisár’s to fall. Yes, Ladislav?’

Ladislav Čič commented: ‘Didn’t that schema of the Rychnovský kings only arise in the 1700s?’

Grebeníček nodded. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, yes. By that time, the “highlights” of Moravian history tended to be those periods when kings amassed great power, expanded their influence, or contributed to the glory of the state. The period between Tomáš 1. and Kaloján chrabrý was thought to be one of stagnation, and so the kings of this time came to be regarded as “lesser”. It didn’t exactly help their reputation that Kaloján’s father embraced certain… ahem… heterodox teachings early in his reign…’

‘In a strange way,’ Petra added, ‘it seems like Miyazaki is in agreement with the medieval scholars!’

‘Sort of,’ Ľubomír waggled a hand. ‘Somehow I don’t think those old monks would have been so kind to Bohodar if he’d actually gone and married a nomad chieftain’s pagan spirit-worshipping younger sister.’

‘True,’ agreed Grebeníček. ‘But in terms of what we might call “ethics” I do think Miyazaki is closer to what our medieval scholars thought than later historians. In a ruler, “those old monks” did tend to value things like harmony, balance, making human laws conform to God’s law—the laws of nature. But…’

The screen behind the lectern went blue as Grebeníček switched the overhead projector feed from the disc-player back to his Apricot laptop, and the EnerGrafix presentation which he had prepared for their lecture appeared. The professor flashed his class a moustachioed grin. There were a couple of groans from the students.

‘Can’t we finish the movie?’ pleaded Petra.

‘After class,’ reiterated Grebeníček with a smile. ‘I have no objection to watching Serenade all the way through with you guys—after class. Right now, though, we need to start discussing how the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre shifted from being an independent religious fraternity with at least a fig-leaf of pious purpose in protecting the Holy Places, into becoming more a nakedly-political tool of the Moravian kings.’

There were a few good-natured grumbles, but the students all got out their textbooks.

‘Now—Chapter 2 in Bobková—page 65. Mr Pelikán, I believe you were our discussant for today…’

~ END OF BOOK III ~​

 

[Revan86]

BOOK FOUR. Heroism and Heresy

The Reign of Bohodar 2. odvážny, Kráľ of Veľká Morava

ONE
Double Cross
31 December 1107 – 25 March 1111

I.
31 December 1107 – 11 February 1108

A hush fell across the high hall in the fastness at Olomouc after the figurative thunderbolt had struck. No one spoke. No one cleared their throats. Not even the clink of silver or glass upon wood sounded, to signify a utensil being set down on a table. All eyes in the hall drifted in two directions, towards two standing men: on one side, toward the Kráľ’s spymaster Heník Abovský; and on the other side, toward his šafár Zvonimír Pavelkov. One man folded his arms in disdaining calm. The other blanched, then reddened—his hands clenched into fists.

‘Pavelkov!’ Heník called out brazenly across the hall. ‘Do you deny even now that you have been trysting with that Greek harlot, even here in Olomouc underneath his Majesty’s nose, abusing the very office of šafár to do so? Have you no shame to lie so brazenly and artlessly, now that the proofs of your indecency are known before all?’

The ‘proofs’ were in the form of a token of affection that clearly had belonged to Zvonimír (for it bore the family seal); two witnesses who attested that it had been found in the guest-chamber of the scandalous Romylia Peganitaina, who had long attended as a guest in Šariš—and indeed had there borne four children out of wedlock; and one further witness who had seen Zvonimír leaving Romylia’s chambers in the small hours.

‘I protest this, you foul schemer. How are we to believe you didn’t procure these underlings to perjure themselves before his Majesty?’

Kráľ Bohodar 2., who was seated at the high table, stifled a sigh of exasperation behind his hand. Beside him, Kráľovna Alitz Mihajlian fidgeted nervously, and squirmed in her seat in clear discomfort, as the eyes of everyone in the hall slowly turned toward them. Clearly they were awaiting the king’s command. However Bohodar answered, he knew that it would be weighed and judged by all. He didn’t baulk at the responsibility; however, he was distinctly embarrassed that his first true judgement as king would hang upon a matter of marital infidelity like this.

‘This matter must be investigated more thoroughly,’ the king pronounced. ‘Guard—please escort Paní Peganitaina to her chamber, and stand watch outside. Keep her there until she can be questioned.’

‘Your Majesty,’ Zvonimír’s jaw dropped. ‘Surely you cannot credit such arrant—?’

‘You forget your place, knieža,’ Bohodar interrupted him. ‘Sit down. And you also, Heník. I am much displeased that you could not have waited until we convened council before you made this charge. There it shall be more properly handled.’

~~~​

The king’s šafár fumed and bellowed in a black rage… right up until the moment he entered the door of his chamber. Once there, he slammed the door behind him. And then, the rage melting like snow away from his carefully-trained face, he turned—softly—and made sure that the latch was secure and the bolt was dropped. He saw out of the corner of his eye a familiar shadow waiting for him within.

‘Here already, are you?’ he asked, calmly.

‘You’ll always find me to be quite… punctual.’

Zvonimír Pavelkov turned to find facing him the very man who had been accusing him of adultery in open council: Hrabě Heník Abovský. The Bohemian noble was regarding the Rusin one over steepled fingers, with an almost reptilian grin on his face. Abovský was, at best, a disconcerting partner, though that was a necessary evil in the kind of enterprise Pavelkov was undertaking.

‘That was… a distasteful bit of play-acting,’ Zvonimír told Heník ruefully. ‘My wife’s not likely to speak to me for months. And also… to expose Romylia like that…’

‘Well, the wench has been bearing your bastards for years,’ Heník observed with a kind of dispassionate contempt. ‘Your little affair was bound to come out eventually. And you did agree to this part in the whole ruse. If you’re worried for her—don’t be. The new king will give your silly bit of Greek skirt back to you, and she’ll be grateful for the ransom. Only a handful of silver.’

Zvonimír sulked. True enough, it was all according to the plan, but he hated having to part with money for anything.

As if reading his mind, Heník told him: ‘Smaller sacrifices are needed for larger gains.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘And this was your plan. I’m just giving you support, connections… and covering your tracks.’

Zvonimír’s lip did curl at that. ‘You act like I’m getting cold feet. I’m not. We’ve come this far. No use my backing out now.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Heník’s reptilian smile widened. ‘You hit the king when he’s weakest—that’s right now—and all of your plans will come to fruition. Let the king think we’re enemies now, so that when we strike him together he’ll be caught off-guard. As his spymaster, that’s something I can guarantee.’

Zvonimír eyed his fellow-councillor carefully. It was true that Heník was indeed well-placed for the desired stab in the back. But his nature was not one that easily invited trust. Zvonimír reminded himself that Heník was a Bohemian, and that the Bohemian nobles had long been dissatisfied with the tightening grip of the Crown upon their traditional liberties and customary rights, as well as with the drift of political power toward Olomouc and Nitra. This was a man who, despite his closeness to Tomáš, in truth had little love for Tomáš’s expansive laws. These times made strange bedfellows, but a man with a shared hatred of the creeping royal prerogative was someone it made sense to cultivate.

‘It is probably best for the two of us not to meet until the time is riper,’ Zvonimír told Heník. ‘Again, I suppose I am grateful for your assistance… but it would be well to keep up appearances.’

‘Agreed.’

~~~​

‘Kostislava,’ Kráľ Bohodar summoned his eldest daughter to him.

‘Yes, Father?’ asked the girl. Bohodar examined her as she drew close to him—how similar indeed she was to her twin brother! Brother Melet was, of course, now in seclusion at the monastery of Krásny Brod, and possibly well on his way to becoming a bishop by now. It was with something of a pang that Bohodar thought about his eldest son, and now pinned his hopes for the succession upon his second.

‘I have a proposition for you, if you are agreeable. The Doux of Thessaly, Kallistos Gomostos, owes this family a favour for the defence and retention of his lands from the Saracens of Crete. He is a good man and—as I have lately learned—unwed. Would you be willing to cement that relationship yourself?’

Kostislava considered. ‘You have served with this doux, in the war? Can you tell me what he is like, from your understanding of him?’

‘Doux Kallistos is a widower—a few years younger than I am. A fine man, and a fearless and cunning warrior, but also not boastful or overconfident. He’s very efficient in disciplining and organising men, and arranging a siege. He is dark-avised and has a beard.’

‘How long a beard?’ asked Kostislava.

Bohodar indicated a couple of inches below his chin.

‘Hm, good,’ Kostislava nodded with approval. ‘I do like a man with a bit of a beard. And he’s military—brave, but not a braggadocio or a fool… better and better. I think I could get along with a man like that, if God wills it. Very well, Father. I’ll consent to marry him.’

‘Thank you, my daughter. That will be all.’

Kostislava gave her father a polite courtesy and left; and Bohodar watched his daughter’s slender retreating figure with a blunt, short sigh. The alliance with Thessaly was a valuable one to have—and a needed one, if his information was accurate. A storm was coming, and two men close in his confidence were very much at the heart of it. He eyed the neatly folded piece of parchment on his desk—already having been read, it would need to be destroyed. Now all that was left was to wonder which of the two would strike first.

His answer came far sooner than he expected, as a messenger came riding from Maramoroš to deliver the ultimatum from his master. Bohodar took it from the Rusin, broke the seal and scanned it.

Kráľ Bohodar:

The tyrannical intrusions by your grandfather and your father will not stand one day longer. On behalf of the undersigned, I your loyal vassal, Zvonimír of Podkarpatská Rus, hereby demand that tax be calculated to the standards set down in law when my mother Čestislava first swore her oath to Eustach staviteľ chramu, and that the God-given customary rights of the nobility that have been upheld in centuries prior among our people be restored to us. If you do not comply with our wishes, we shall take to the field against you and contest these injustices by force; and—having God on our side in this just cause—we shall most assuredly prevail.

May God preserve you and set you upon a path of correction and repentance.

Zvonimír Čestislavič Pavelkov-Sigetmarmoroský, knž. Podk. Rusi
Jaromil Vieroslavek Mikulčický, knž. Nitrianske
Bratislav Bratislavek Aqhazar, knž. H. Sliezska
Maria Mihailečka Rychnovská-Žičká, vvňa. Milčanu
Zvonimír Prokopek Kopčianský, hr. Znojma
Chvalimír Daliborek Rychnovský-Kluczbork, hr. Doudleb
Miroslav Hrabišek Přemyslovec-Boleslav, hr. Litoměřic
Heník Jakubek Abovský-Boleslav, hr. Boleslavi

… and there it was. It was just as Bohodar had been warned. Still—

‘Take this message back to your master. I shall not allow the work of my fathers to be undone, and would sooner shed my own blood. I will be awaiting him with my own sword drawn.’

The Rusin messenger, having evidently not expected anything better, bowed and took his leave.

Bohodar sat back with a grimace. So, his šafár and his spymaster had been planning this together… and not only them, but his entire council, save his queen and the loyal Archbishop Ezana. And yet, if his information was right, if he was prepared to contest this on the battlefield, he could do so successfully. The marriage offer for Kostislava couldn’t have come timelier. And there was one other course he could take to gain the upper hand. It wouldn’t be pretty, and it wouldn’t be glamorous—but then, Bohodar had seen enough action in his life to know that war was neither of those things.

 

[Midnite Duke]

What trick does Bohodar have up his sleeve? The oldest to the monastery, your choice or was it the AI's wish? Thank you for updating.