• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Czenzi and Botta are still too cute. Where did you find the riddles? Thank you for updating

There actually is a book of Old English riddle-poems called the Exeter Book; that's a historical book that exists. I got all of the riddles in this chapter from there. In my translations I tried to keep the cadence and general feel of the OE originals, so, all due apologies if my word choices ('fere', 'rail', and so on) sound a bit old-fashioned or 'Bloodsnake-y'.
 
  • 1
Reactions:
III.
31 July 1156 – 28 August 1157

magyar_riverman.png


Ežva ju kuźa, teryb gy vyvti
Lebźe ydžid pyž jedžid parusa.
Pyžas pukale das vit udal zon.
Öťi zon kyndźi stavis gažaeś.
Naje vorseni kujim gudeken,
Naje śyleni das ńoľ gölesen.
Öťi burlak-zon mića ćužemnas
Arśa kymer moz vaas vidźede.
Jurse ledźema, oz i leptivli,
Vomse tupkema, oz i goredli.
“Myjla burlak-mort, tadźi žugiľtćin?
Myjla jortjasked te on gažedći?”
Kinas šeništis šogśiś burlak-mort,
Šuis-goredis nora gölesen:
“Jona, jortjasej, udal zonjazej,
Ene ďivitej, ene lögaśej.
Menam śölemej šogen tyrema,
Menam dolidej yle kolema.
Musa Ćenźukej mene enovtis.
Jugid šondiej menam kusema.
Me ke mustemmi mića Ćenźukli,
Ovni mu vylin menim ńinemla.
Bośtej šybitej mene końeres
Džudžid va pyčke, gudir kyrkeče!”’

No one was as taken aback by this strain as Czenzi herself. It provoked some distant, deep ancestral memory in her, hearing this ancient Asiatic love-song from the faraway Urals—older than the written word in Slovien or in Mögyer—with the words upon the tongue of her beloved husband. The primal, chthonic longing stirring within her… she hadn’t felt anything like this since she’d first brought him to the tumulus that held the remains of her ancestors. That had been that wondrous night, her first night together with Bohodar, at Halastavak.

And here was Bohodar himself kneeling in front of her, his eyes holding her own as though with a gentle caress, singing to her in such a bardic tongue the tale of a young man spurned in love, with not one note and not one syllable out of place or mispronounced. In most traditional versions of the song, the distant young woman immortalised in this song of passion was named ‘Maria’ or ‘Maška’—for Bohodar to replace the ‘Mašukej’ and ‘Mašukli’ in the song respectively with ‘Ćenźukej’ and ‘Ćenźukli’, without once muddling a beat, and furthermore cleverly echoing her name against ‘ćužemnas’ (‘handsome face’) several stanzas before, was nothing if not flattering.

Or would be, if Slavomíra and Gorislava weren’t cheek by jowl with her, hearing the same thing she was.

2021_07_03_3a.png

Czenzi, who had already been blushing furiously for the past two minutes, muttered something to Bohodar which she could never rightly remember later. She’d hoped it was complimentary, but at that moment she had to get some distance between him and her and catch her breath.

That was easier thought and said, than done. Not only because Bohodar had sung a folk-song of such deep affection to her, in an archaic Ugrian dialect which was as much felt as understood. But Czenzi’s hand went down to her abdomen, to the little bump of her wame where her and Bohodar’s Number Four was. She felt a bit dizzy and had to steady herself against a handy rowan branch—though whether it was an ill dizziness from the morning sickness or a good one from her husband’s ardour, she couldn’t yet tell. She took a few breaths to calm herself. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. They were still hot.

Czenzi blew out a breath—then drew in another, and blew it out again, still leaning on the rowan for support. She hadn’t felt this giddy with raw, surging emotion since… well, since she saw Bohodar best Büzir-Üzünköl in the ring at Szarka, for her sake. Surely she was too old to be feeling this way? Heléna was already a young woman, full-grown… and a far better head and hands for figures, plans and household management than either Czenzi or Botta ever had. And even Bohodar’s baby brother Daniel had started taking an interest in girls—although it was a tad unfortunate that Živoslava, the object of his affections, did not return them.

2021_07_03_5a.png
2021_07_03_2a.png

Her two female companions approached her.

‘What a fine sight that was!’ Gorislava crossed her arms. ‘Frankly, my Queen—I’m envious! My Zdravko never knelt down in our courtyard and sang me a love song before!’

‘Who—who said it was a love song?’ Czenzi murmured.

‘Your face did,’ Gorislava smirked. Czenzi covered over her still furiously-blushing cheeks with her palms.

‘No, honestly, it wasn’t that hard to figure,’ Slavomíra soothed the queen somewhat. ‘What, do you expect us to believe that he was merely asking you about the details of manor administration, on his knees down there? In verse? In melody? And in such a sweet voice?’

Czenzi let out a nervous giggle, but followed it up with: ‘… What should I do?’

‘What else should you do?’ Gorislava grinned. ‘Enjoy it! Savour it! To be a noblewoman in a political marriage, and have a husband who truly dotes on you like this, is a rare blessing indeed.’

~~~​

‘Lady Czenzi,’ Bohodar approached her in their room later that evening. ‘If it has caused you any unhappiness at all, being here in Moravia with me—if there is any deep desire of your heart that I, in my unworthy negligence, have left unfulfilled—speak it to me, that it may be done.’

Ó, kedves Botta,’ Czenzi traced his cheek. ‘I have nothing to complain—nothing at all! You treat me very well here. Here I have good friends… a fine court to receive them in. I have plenty to occupy my time. And of course I have you, my dearest one! To think of it, all my life, I lived in a teld in a Csángóföld camp. Though the blood of many Bertalans flows in my veins, I had never thought to be embarking upon this great journey into Moravia—!’

‘Oh, dearest one,’ Bohodar knelt and kissed her hands. ‘Are you homesick at all?’

Czenzi looked at Bohodar. He was completely in earnest—he wasn’t making fun of her at all. That wasn’t in him. He genuinely wanted to know if he’d caused her distress, by removing her from her homeland.

‘Darling, you’ve taken me back there whenever I asked,’ Czenzi told him. ‘Remember?’

‘But that was years and years ago!’ Bohodar objected. ‘Before my coronation, before the wars. Tell you what—how about I bring the Csángóföld to you?’

Czenzi didn’t quite know how to respond to this, but it was clear that her husband—still younger and less mature in many ways than she was—was desirous of doing something special for her. Suddenly she felt that it might be cruel to refuse him. And so she gave him a tentative nod. That was all the encouragement he needed. He kissed her hands, one by one. But in her heart Czenzi was still a bit doubtful, how he meant to ‘bring the Csángóföld’ to her.

Weeks went by. The morning sickness passed, and the baby bump of Czenzi’s abdomen swelled and grew noticeable. Bohodar absented himself from the castle for long stretches of time during the days, and no one really seemed to know what he was about. He took with him, however, an elderly Magyar man who was an expert in estates management and history, which certainly aroused Czenzi’s suspicions.

And then, one day, Bohodar showed himself before Czenzi. Czenzi turned and grinned broadly—it was all she could do to keep from laughing, partly in delight and partly at the mild absurdity of the sight that greeted her. Bohodar had dressed himself in a fur-lined cap, a leather overcoat and soft boots. He had over his shoulder a longbow and a quiver of arrows, and bore a hunting-knife at his side—he looked to all intents and purposes like a Magyar huntsman. But earnestly Bohodar extended a hand to her.

‘Come with me, my queen.’

Czenzi followed her ‘huntsman’ hand-in-hand out of the castle, out into the bailey and past the gates into the town, over the bridge and out into the woods. Bohodar led her along a seldom-used woodland trail into a tract of remote woodland, where the woodsman had evidently allowed him to live. He drew her further in among the trees, leading her by the hand, until they came to—

hunting_cabin.png

—a rough-hewn wooden cabin with shallow thatch eaves and a narrow door, a simple chimney and a fire-pit. As Czenzi entered within, the urge to laugh grew stronger. Bohodar, together with the elderly Magyar antiquarian and historian he’d been consulting, had evidently tried and gone to considerable effort to recreate a Magyar winter hunting lodge in the style that had been popular before Álmos’s conquest of the Pannonian basin. Czenzi was no expert herself and had no way to judge the correctness of her husband’s efforts. But she had to admit to herself that she felt flattered by all this effort.

‘These coming seasons, my love, I shall live here,’ Bohodar told her. ‘You may stay with me as you choose, as long as your health and your condition permit it. I will live on my own like a Magyar huntsman from long ago, with my bow, my knife, my shovel, a goodly supply of twine, and whatever springes and pit-traps I can fashion therefrom. I shall live only on what I catch this coming year. And if I happen upon a great beast—I shall dedicate the kill only to you.’

‘Botta,’ Czenzi grabbed his hands and pressed them to her lips one after the other. ‘My love, my heart—! This is all very flattering! I can tell how deeply you care about me, and with what great care you want to honour the ancient traditions of my people, which I hold dear. But isn’t this all a bit… too much?’

‘What could be too much for the one, the true, the only she which will ever reside in my heart?’

‘A great deal could be too much,’ Czenzi chided her ardent young husband. ‘I do desire your love, I am flattered by this undertaking of yours, and I won’t try to discourage you from any rightful part in it. But please do show some common sense. Don’t take unnecessary risks in the name of any romantic notions! Remember this above all: a Magyar hunter kept his caution and knew how to take care of himself—he would do no one any good injured or dead.’

‘I listen and obey, milady,’ Bohodar knelt to her.

‘It is well to obey me, my huntsman,’ Czenzi told him. But she held him tenderly, letting his head rest gently upon her befruited belly, where their child was busily growing and taking shape.

~~~​

What did you say the Kráľ is doing?’ asked Knieža Bystrík Mikulčický of Nitra.

His cousin Zelimír Kopčianský answered: ‘My reports tell me that Bohodar’s taken to living in the woods alone like a wild man, like some Asiatic barbarian hunter. He isn’t even using a proper spear like a self-respecting Moravian would do, but only a bow and a knife and traps.’

Bystrík stroked his long, iron-grey beard. ‘Rather strange occupation for a new king.’

‘Do you think he’s gone mad?’ asked Zelimír.

Bystrík shook his head hurriedly. ‘No. No, there was no trace of madness on him when he gave his decrees at Jihlava. This is something else entirely. Are you sure he was alone? No light troops or archers or other armigers with him?’

‘That was the most I could tell,’ Zelimír answered his cousin.

Bystrík gave his long beard another few thoughtful strokes. ‘Keep an eye on him for the time being; let me know of his movements. Such solo hunting expeditions can be… dangerous. We wouldn’t want any… unfortunate accidents… to befall our king, now, would we?’

‘Of course not, milord.’ The corner of Zelimír’s mouth twitched.

~~~

2021_07_03_4a.png

Bohodar went back to the tanner’s to retrieve the hide he’d taken, and took it with his own hands back up to the castle. This fine grey fellow had stumbled into one of his pit-traps by accident; Bohodar had leapt down and despatched him with a merciful stroke of his knife. Was it possible that this was a distant descendant of that one which Bohodar’s ancestor and namesake slovoľubec had taken in a similar way for his beloved Mechthild’s sake? Possible indeed.

Bohodar knelt down before his wife and unfurled the six-foot-long wolf-pelt before him, entirely dried and cured and intact, the textured white and black hairs patterning themselves in every shade of grey between black around the ears, shoulders and tail to and white along the cheeks and flanks. Czenzi held her hand over her mouth in awe. Then, with the deliberation and care of a woman as far along in the family way as she was, Czenzi knelt down herself to feel the luxuriant, dense, springy fur of the mighty beast. No doubt this would make a warm covering in the oncoming winter, or a fine ornament elsewhere in the castle.

‘It’s beautiful, Botta!’ Czenzi marvelled. ‘And so soft…

‘It is yours. All in your name and in your honour, Árpád Czenzi,’ Bohodar declared.

2021_07_03_5b.png

The glowing smile she gave him made his whole effort worth it. Bohodar stood and saluted her. He then went straight back into the woods and continued his solo hunting efforts. However, it seemed that with the wolf’s falling into the pit trap, his luck in the hunt had completely run dry.

Something about living alone in a hut on the unkith edges of society had given Bohodar something of a superstitious temper. He was quick to notice that the wild coneys and fowl were avoiding his springes and traps, after he’d taken the wolf. Had the spirit of the wolf become angry, at having been taken in such a way? Or had he gone too far in taking the wolf to a tanner rather than dressing the hide himself? Such were the thoughts that Bohodar was prey to, alone in his hunting lodge. He suddenly found himself wholly lacking in things to eat.

True, Czenzi had not told him to do this herself. Indeed, she had told him not to take any unnecessary risks, or to approach his hunting excursion with any deluded notions of romanticism. But Bohodar felt he was honour-bound to continue in his rude little hut without assistance from the outside. Did the ancient Hungarian hunters have at their beck and call armies of servants to go out and provide victuals for them? Or did they have a castle nearby at the ready, to which they could retreat for comfort and safety when they felt like it?

No, they did not. As December made its way into January, Bohodar was torn between the demands of his body and the ‘romantic notions’ of ancient Magyar hunting practices which his wife had told him not to entertain. Ultimately the ‘romantic notions’ won out. Bohodar found the hunger easier to bear if he told himself it was for his beloved wife’s sake. He was doing this, after all, for her honour.

2021_07_03_6a.png

2021_07_03_7a.png

Whatever was behind the dry spell lifted in January. The springes he had set up caught first a grouse, and then several small burrowing animals. By that time, despite it being a fast season of the Church, Bohodar was not too picky about what he ate. He ate happily what God had provided to him in his solitude, and thus restored his health.

All through that early winter, owing to her state, Czenzi didn’t visit him very often, but kept to the castle… otherwise she would certainly have discouraged him from starving himself—and done so in particularly strong terms. However, she did send one of the maids from the castle to fetch her husband to her. And given the tide—it was then in early February; Bohodar had forgotten the day—he hurried along with her when she beckoned.

When Bohodar entered the castle and went his way up to her chambers, the midwife made him wait outside. She was already in labour. Bohodar tholed outside, though each hour out here passed as painfully as a day of hunger he’d endured already. Was Czenzi well? He worried each time she gave birth, and prayed fervently to the Birthgiver of God to watch over his wife in her agonies.

At last, however, the midwife beckoned him inside, and presented him with a baby girl: a healthy, large, strong-featured and tawny-skinned baby girl, who possessed her father’s brows and nose, and her mother’s long mobile mouth already. Bohodar came with her into the room. Czenzi, her brow gleaming with sweat and pain, turned her amber eyes to her husband as the midwife handed the formidable-looking little girl back into her arms.

Kedvesem,’ Czenzi murmured to her husband. ‘May I make a request of you?’

‘Name it,’ Bohodar took his wife’s hand lovingly.

‘Could we name her after my elder sister?’ she asked weakly.

2021_07_03_8a.png

‘Hmm,’ Bohodar chuckled. ‘Léna, Vojta, Anna and Rózsa. By now I think I’m getting the hang of your preferences, dearest.’

‘Is that a yes?’

Bohodar traced Czenzi’s hair, drawing one sweat-matted strand away from her eyes. ‘That’s a yes. I’m fond of your sister; she made me welcome in Szarka. Not as much as you did, of course.’

Czenzi caught his hand and kissed it.

‘Now I’m free again, I’ll come and visit you. It’ll be just the two of us out there,’ Czenzi promised.

‘I’d love that,’ Bohodar told her.

~~~​

After Rózsa was born, Czenzi frequented Bohodar’s solo encampment much more often. She was happy to bring victuals from the castle and share them with her husband, and moderate his other occasional excesses with good sense and proper preparation. But she couldn’t help but admit to herself that he had thoroughly impressed her with this whole project of his. It was sweet as well, how Bohodar had gone to such pains to make himself a royal huntsman in the Magyar tradition for her sake.

Zelimír Kopčianský, doing the bidding of the head of his dynasty, had been keeping the hunting-grounds under surveillance since winter. However, after the thaw, and after the melt had drained out—Zelimír got careless. He was spotted by the king coming into the hunting-grounds just minutes after Czenzi had arrived at the cabin—and Bohodar made an assumption about his presence that was entirely misguided.

‘Turn about, Kopčianský!’ Bohodar shouted at the one-eyed hrabě of Jihlava, a stave in his hands. ‘Leave now, or I’ll beat you like a dog!’

Zelimír stood his ground, but he barely had time to register the wrathful Kráľ in front of him before Bohodar’s stave was out and swinging. Zelimír had taken his sidearm off his belt complete with its scabbard and was frantically fending off blows, but to little avail as heavy wallops caught him on the leg, in the side, across the side of the head, and right in the pit of his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Bohodar continued to thrash Zelimír where he was doubled over on the ground, before the one-eyed hrabě managed to get to his feet and slink away whence he’d come.

2021_07_03_9a.png
2021_07_03_10a.png

Zelimír and Bystrík hadn’t had the last word quite yet, though.

‘Do you hear that?’ asked Czenzi of her husband, one night in August. ‘There. That snapping of twigs. Something’s out there—and no small beast, either.’

‘Shall I have a look?’

Czenzi flung her husband a pleading look. ‘Be careful, kedvesem.’

Bohodar went out into the night forest, but heard nothing and saw nothing but the ordinary sounds and black stillness of the woods. He looked about for a long, long time—encircled the cabin three full rounds. But nothing came out at him. Whatever it was that Czenzi had heard—it might have been long gone by now. He turned to go back within, when he saw a shape that looked very much like a human form, with hands, part the thatchwork in the roof and lower himself inside. Bohodar caught, below a stray shaft of moonlight, the cold glint of steel on the man’s belt. And it was then that he knew that Czenzi was in danger.

Heedless of his own safety, Bohodar flung himself back inside the door of the hunting cabin, went to the chest at the end of his bed, and pulled free his sword—just as the black form of the man in his cloak descended from the ceiling through the thatch to the floor, and pulled loose his blade. With a stillness like a stray gust of wind, the black figure sailed in toward where Czenzi was lying on Bohodar’s bed, only for Bohodar to interpose himself between it and her, his own sword-edge at the ready.

There followed a brief but terrible struggle in the dark. Czenzi tugged up the sheets and retreated as far back toward the wall as she could, watching what little she could make out of the life-or-death mêlée in front of her in uncomprehending horror. Both figures had long since gone to the floor. One of them stood up, blade in hand. In what little moonlight there was to see by, Czenzi couldn’t properly tell if it was the intruder, or her husband who had risen.

But she did catch something else. The figure who had been on the floor scampered toward the door. And that was when she recognised the broad shoulders of the standing man as those of her husband, and saw the sheer length of blade he carried as he sheathed it. Czenzi breathed a sigh of relief.

2021_07_03_12a.png

‘Are you hurt?’ asked Bohodar in front of her.

‘No,’ Czenzi answered meekly. ‘But… what might have happened—! Thank God, Botta—!’

Bohodar leaned down over her. He brought his face close to hers. Czenzi knew him by scent now, all doubt dispelled. And Czenzi gripped her arms around his neck so hard that it threatened to cut off his wind as she kissed him harder than she ever had before.

‘Light the fire, Botta,’ Czenzi whispered to him. ‘Lay me out in front of it, and love me.’
 
  • 2Love
Reactions:
Botta/Czenzi still scores a twelve on the cuteness scale, even with adult children. I love how you give fresh approaches to repetitive events. I saw a medieval waterman hauling his skiff ashore until I noticed the motor. Kindergarten Kop, are you ready for your charges. Thank you for the update.
 
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Botta/Czenzi still scores a twelve on the cuteness scale, even with adult children. I love how you give fresh approaches to repetitive events. I saw a medieval waterman hauling his skiff ashore until I noticed the motor. Kindergarten Kop, are you ready for your charges. Thank you for the update.

An intercultural couple betrothed as children who fall in love, and stay in love... I find I can't resist the cuteness either! Helps that one of them is an INFP, and the other one is an ESFJ (if you buy into the Myers-Briggs stuff). They complement each other well.

One of the beautiful things about the Crusader Kings series (and I know this point has been mentioned in AARLand before) is that the gameplay doesn't give you the story--it gives you the building-blocks for writing a story. The real fun of writing a nAARrative is in 'filling in the gaps', or even putting a unique spin on events that can thread them together.

Yeah, I noticed the motor on that banner image only after I posted it. I was trying to find images of 'Magyar boatmen', and that one came up--I liked the atmospherics.

Ha... am I ready for the pint-sizes? No. PD starts next week, though. Need to get in touch with my on-site CTR first, THIS week. Cheers!
 
  • 1
Reactions:
While Bohodar is doing great things for his marriage, one can't help but wonder how the kingdom fares in his self-imposed kind-of exile. Surely he's left people in charge he can trust, but the violent episodes may say that there's something going on in Olomouc that the king will have to deal with.

I can only agree about the narrative building blocks offered by events and your excellent use of them. Even if they don't make much sense sometimes ;) .
 
  • 2Like
Reactions:
Book Four Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
Another Bohodar in Antioch
21 September 1157 – 16 December 1158


2021_07_03_24a.png
2021_07_03_25a.png

It was sometime after King Bohodar had downed his fifth glass of rich Niemcza wine that night, that he’d begun talking about his plans to Vojvodkyňa Ladina. He wasn’t normally so uninhibited… but this truly was a fine vintage she’d gotten her hands on, and it had been flowing freely from the amphorae ever since the feast had begun. Already this feast, his cousin Bratromila—her eyes having been rather larger than her liver, as usual—had gone and soiled the front of Bohodar’s best tunic. And Bohodar himself had evidently given his elderly vassal some unguarded pledges whose content he couldn’t rightly remember. Not a good sign. Even so, he continued speaking to his spymistress openly about his plans.

‘It’s something of a tradition,’ Bohodar was explaining, somewhat slurrily. ‘It goes back to Slovoľubec, I think. Every Moravian ruler named Bohodar must fare as a pilgrim at least once toward the great city of ‘Anṭâkiya! It is our step upon the journey toward the heavenly kingdom.’

‘Why, yes, of course,’ Ladina answered him. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. It wasn’t much more than… what… forty-five years ago when your great-grandfather was making his own journey thither. I remember it quite well.’

Bohodar sighed. ‘It’s a pity my grandfather and father never made it to one of the Holy Places. And how Dedo did love to travel! I shall be sure to offer my prayers for them while I’m there.’

Ladina laid a wizened hand upon her royal kinsman’s shoulder. ‘They would, I am sure, appreciate that. It would be of great benefit to both their souls. I take it Czenzi’s staying here.’

Bohodar nodded. ‘For one thing, she can’t bear to leave you, Slavomíra and Gorislava for such a time. And for another thing, she’s still nursing little Blažka—and insists, of course, on doing that herself. I’m sure, though, that she’ll hold down the fort redoubtably.’

2021_07_03_21a.png

Ladina smiled. What an admirable girl Bohodar had married! Like most Slavs of her generation, Ladina had long harboured a not-so-hidden grudge against the Magyar people in their entirety: barbarian brutes who had ridden out of the east on horseback with their short-bows drawn, bent only on plunder and spoil. But Ladina hadn’t taken long in coming to appreciate this sweet, steady, warmhearted, ebullient and hardworking Ugorka, who had gone out of her way to befriend her and the other female vassals in Moravia. Czenzi had engendered such deep trust in such a short length of time, that it was hard to believe she hadn’t been raised Slovien. And not only her trust! It wasn’t every husband who would feel comfortable leaving his wife for months, in full assurance not only of her loyalty but of her competence, her dependability!

For his part – Bohodar had already let his tongue wag too freely at this feast. He drank out his wine politely, and then didn’t imbibe any further. Ladina was already getting too close to comfort to his true reasons for going to ‘Anṭâkiya. Reasons he had imparted only to his wife and to his sister Katka—the two people who understood him well enough to be privy to such motives.

Bohodar’s reign had begun auspiciously. The Jihlava Decrees had intimidated Slavomíra and Bystrík such that they would not openly oppose him. Although the Moravian commons were still slightly sceptical of a king’s promises not to engage in any offensive wars, at the very least they had already seen the results of the fulfilment of two of his promises. Dozens of common prisoners-of-war had been released back to their families without condition—in general, the only prisoners who came off the worse, and at that only by a light fine, were the lesser nobles who had been direct parties to the rebellion. And Patriarch Constantine 3. had indeed been good to his word with Moravia’s funds, and as a result: walls and roads were being repaired, garrisons were being resupplied, country patrols were being reëstablished, women widowed and children orphaned by the wars were receiving food and shelter, and bower and townsman were beginning, slowly but surely, to rebuild.

But…

~~~

orthodox-icons-candles.jpg

‘Bohodar, my child, what lies upon your heart?’

Before coming to this feast, Bohodar had gone to confession. With the comforting voice of Archbishop Vladimil at his side, Bohodar looked toward the icon of the Mother of God before him, let out a sigh, and unburdened himself.

Vladyka,’ Bohodar began, ‘I can still see their faces before me. Soběslav Mikulčický… and two other young men… boys… whose names I never learned. The boys whose lives ended at my hand, by my blade. Now, I know that it was war—that I had my duty. But I can’t forget the looks on their faces when they… died. They all looked so… shocked. Surprised. Even… embarrassed. Like victims of a pickpocket when they discover their purse is missing. Vladyka, how can I be worthy as a king, when I am no better than a thief? In fact, I’m worse than a thief, because I stole from them even their chance to repent, even as I’m doing now, of their sins!’

There was a silence. Vladimil’s hand rested warmly on Bohodar’s shoulder.

‘You feel that loss?’ he began.

Bohodar nodded. Vladimil took a breath, as though considering what to say, and then went on.

‘Don’t ask me to judge the rights and wrongs of your ancestors,’ the Archbishop said meekly. ‘This is, after all, your confession. But I have tended to a lot of soldiers in my day. And most of them—the better ones, in my opinion—felt the same shame over killing, even in a righteous cause, that you do. And here is what I tell them. Saint Basil recommended to soldiers who had killed in war, that they not approach the Chalice for three years.’

‘And so I have done,’ Bohodar nodded meekly. ‘And I would do still.’

That—’ Vladimil cautioned his spiritual child sternly, ‘—is pride and arrogance. What? You think you’re a better doctor of souls than Saint Basil?’

Bohodar hung his head and shook it meekly.

‘No—you should return to the Chalice, as the three years of your penance are over,’ Vladimil went on softly. ‘As King, it’s your obligation to share in the same life of Christ that all of your subjects do. But… I can see that the memory of Soběslav still weighs darkly upon your heart, and gives you unease.’

‘What should I do, Father?’

‘Well…’ Vladimil had told him, ‘if it still burdens your mind and soul… perhaps a penitential journey might be advisable. Your great-grandfather was, I believe, also a soldier under his father’s command?’

‘He was.’

‘And did he undertake such a penance?’

‘He went to ‘Anṭâkiya, Vladyka.’

‘Then, might I suggest,’ Vladimil went on, ‘that the same journey, with the same destination in mind, might not be a bad idea for you.’

2021_07_03_27a.png

So close was he to Czenzi, that he divulged to her both his confession, and Vladimil’s recommendation to him for it. Czenzi had nodded, understood.

‘I’m not happy that you’ll be away from me for so long, kedvesem,’ Czenzi told him. ‘I also know how much these things which you were forced to do in the wars, have weighed upon your heart. Almighty God in heaven knows, I have tried to help you carry some small part of them. But if you can lay your burden down in the first Christian city, beloved—I will not stop you from going. I will pray only for your return to me, safe and swift.’

~~~

hatay_bagras.jpg

‘Anṭâkiya—a city which had been inhabited so long, many ages upon ages, that even the stones of the road were storied far out of time. As Meroë, this site had been a city already in antiquity, long before the city’s formal ‘founding’ by Seleukos Nikatōr over 1500 years ago. By the time Bohodar 3. reached the ancient fortification at Baġrâs in late October, he had already spent the better part of two months on the road, both riding alone on the Jerusalem Way and travelling as a member of various pilgrim convoys from as far afield as Compostela and Köln. It had been an instructive journey, and a difficult one, for Bohodar.

The ‘instructive’ part of it came while he was travelling through Hungary. Several pilgrims from East Francian had taken to talking within earshot of him around one of the fires at their camp, and Bohodar had happened to hear his own name mentioned amid an uproar of derisive laughter.

Got grüez iûch, mîna guota herren,’ Bohodar greeted them politely in a passable German tongue. ‘Waz ist so lustec?

2021_07_03_28a.png

Everyone except the tow-headed man who had mentioned his name fell still at his approach. But the yellow-headed East Frank went on blithely:

Ich sprëche vo’m künec von Grôzmären, nördlich von hier. Necheine sorge, mîn herr! Îr wirt gar nihtes niht wie diser narrenkünec!

A ‘fool-king’, eh? Bohodar leaned forward, interested, and took a seat among the fellow-pilgrims.

As it turned out, the oblivious storyteller had indeed heard of his exploits living alone in his cabin while he was wooing his wife against her homesickness. However, he had attributed it instead to a kind of madness or eccentricity, a queer indulgence of a king who didn’t care about his lands or his folk. As such, the Bohodar in this story was something of a ‘wild man’, akin to the ‘masterless men’ and riff-raff who lived in the hedgerows trying to eke out a living on their meagre hunting skills.

Bohodar had found such a view of himself to be intriguing. If this East Frankish pilgrim had taken such a low view of him, little doubt that many within his own kingdom did so as well. Bohodar made a note to himself, to attend more public functions, and to take a more active hand in the administration of his lands and the well-being of his tenants. If he would uphold his own decrees, he would need to rely upon the support of the Moravian commons, not merely the sufferance of the nobles.

2021_07_03_29a.png

And then came the ‘difficult’ part. It was when he passed into the marches of the Eastern Roman Empire that his head began to feel like it would split in pain, and his sinuses and back of his throat stubbornly refused to clear themselves of mucous. The Kráľ of Moravia was wracked by a wet cough as well as his splitting headaches. Yet he forged on across the Bosporus and into Asia Minor. But not before he paid a visit—suitably scarved about the face to prevent contagion—to the Œcumenical Patriarch himself, Konstantinos 3., to thank him for his generous consideration to his country and people, and to receive his blessing for the journey.

He came to Baġrâs in the middle of this fog the size of his own head. And even though his eyes swam and his head would not steady itself, he nonetheless was breathtaken by the ancient fortification and its environs. From here he could make his way down the old wall and pass through the Iron Gate, and from there he would visit the ruins of the Golden Dome and the Cave Church of Saint Peter, before kneeling before the Patriarch of Antioch like any other sinner, and asking for the heir of Peter’s blessing and absolution.

The kindly Patriarch placed the sign of the Cross upon Bohodar’s head, and gifted him also with the customary small silver token which was given to all pilgrims who made their way to the Golden Dome. And while passing the ancient wrack of the church, Bohodar touched the stones and offered up prayers for the souls of his father and of his grandfather, hoping that Saint Peter, the Theotokos, and Christ would hear them and speed them toward blessedness. He prayed also for the souls of Soběslav Mikulčický and the two others whose names he knew not, and asked for their forgiveness of his sin toward them. And there, among the ruins of the church of Antioch, Bohodar finally left the burden of his guilt and began instead to look to the future.

2021_07_03_31a.png
2021_07_03_30a.png


~~~​

When Bohodar 3. returned to Olomouc, just in time for the Christmas feast, he was greeted at the town gate by his son and heir, Vojta.

Vojtech Rychnovský, a fourteen-year-old boy now—nearly mature enough to wield a sword and be counted fully a man, still had traces of his old rambunctious and inquisitive demeanour he’d had as a child—and his high forehead attested to the formidably-organised and rational mind beneath. Czenzi often joked with Bohodar that Vojta was his father’s son through and through, but looking at him now Bohodar could see every bit as much of his mother in him. Vojta had his mother’s dark hair (though it was as unruly as Bohodar’s), and a pair of dark eyes shaped like his mother’s as well, with evident epicanthal folds. More importantly: under his own and Czenzi’s tutelage, Bohodar had seen Vojta mature into a thoughtful, kind and forbearing young man. They greeted each other warmly, with the kiss due between kinfolk.

‘Father,’ Vojta laid a solicitous hand upon Botta’s shoulder as he suddenly wracked himself with a deep, phlegmatic cough. ‘Are you well? Shall I call for Kostolanská to come see you?’

‘No, no,’ Bohodar answered his son thickly. ‘The Arab doctors in the first Christian city did what they could for me.’

‘Father…’ Vojta began bracingly. But in response, Bohodar reached into his travelling-cloak and produced from it an ampoule of some bitter-smelling vitreous substance.

‘Kveta is a fine woman and a credit to her art. But I still doubt that we have any wisdom here to match theirs. The leeches in Antioch consulted not only our own ancestress “Helvius Turonicus”, but also ibn Sînâ, ibn Ṭâriq, Tzoumenēs, aṭ-Ṭabarî, al-Fazârî, Mâsarġawai’s Abdâl al-Adwiyya, and half a dozen others more I’d never even heard of. This stuff here—’ he turned the ampoule in his hand in front of Vojta’s eyes, ‘kept me alive, upright and in the saddle the entire journey back.’

‘I see,’ Vojta said appreciatively. They continued their walk up toward the snow-bound castle.

Bohodar clapped a fond hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, though, for caring that much for me. I feel I haven’t done particularly well by you these last years. I intend to set that right.’

‘Father,’ Vojta shook his head with a smile, ‘don’t reproach yourself too much on such things!’

‘Had you given any thought to marriage?’ asked Bohodar.

Vojta blushed. Sure, there’d been girls he’d looked twice at. And more. But no—Bohodar could see that there was nothing any more serious yet for his son than the usual infatuations of his age. That boded well. ‘I… hadn’t given much thought to it yet, Father.’

‘Well, perhaps that’s something we ought to look into together,’ Bohodar told his son gently.

2021_07_03_32a.png
2021_07_03_32b.png
 
  • 1Love
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Book Four Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
Betrothal Feast
14 February 1159 – 11 August 1160

Of course, the natural place to start when looking for suitable brides for your son, is with the politically-advantageous families within your realm, no? And then, if that fails, you continue looking for suitable brides among the politically-advantageous families outside your realm. This is common sense.

… Well. That hadn’t been the common sense for Prisnec, who had married his distant cousin Viera Rychnovská, and then given his eldest son in marriage to his foreign lowborn foster-daughter Alswit. But that had been a different generation. Botta was determined to avoid the mistakes of that generation, to ward off any further civil violence from Moravia’s lands. And if his eldest son’s marriage could aid him in that goal? So much the better!

Bohodar was looking through the papers in front of him, examining the reports he’d had Gorislava Pavelková draw up on each of several eligible young ladies for Vojta, when he heard a light knock on the post of the door of his study.

Ahoj, Daršik!

Bohodar paused. There were only two people on earth who were privileged enough to call him ‘Daršik’, and one of them made a decided point of not doing so. Bohodar looked up toward the doorway. He saw there a familiar, welcome sight: the arch-browed dark reddish-brown head of—

‘Katarína!’ he cried happily, standing to greet his younger sister. ‘When did you get in? I’m sorry, I’d have come to greet you at the gate myself if I’d known you were coming.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Katarína Anchabadze shook her head briskly, then indicated the stack of papers on his desk with her hand. ‘Surprise visit. I wouldn’t have had you do that for me anyway, given the weather you’ve been under. Good to see you’re feeling better, anyway. Foreign affairs or domestic?’

2021_07_03_35a.png

‘Domestic,’ Bohodar glowered at the papers. ‘Very domestic. I’m looking for a bride for my son.’

‘Hm,’ Katarína raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you ever given a thought to letting the boy choose for himself? Might be a bit less strain on you, for one thing.’

Bohodar made a decidedly sceptical noise. Katka grinned.

‘At any rate, bro—still looks like you could use a break. Since you’re feeling better, how ‘bout coming with me for a walk outside the town walls? Been awhile since you’ve had one of those, I’ll bet.’

Bohodar cast one last reproachful stare at the pile of parchment littering his desk. The pile of parchment, frustratingly, stood there in silent nonchalance, roundly ignoring him. Then the Moravian king turned back to his sister with a heavy sigh.

‘Alright, let’s. I feel like I’m not making any headway here anyway.’

And thus Bohodar and Katarína made their way out of the courtyard, through the town gate and out over the Morava on the north bridge, then turned left to take a loop around the town walls. The pace they took was slow, deliberate, familiar, a couple paces apart between them but no less companionable for all that. Despite Katka having been (through no fault of her own) at the political centre of one of the wars that had caused Bohodar so much inward pain, Katka herself was very much a salutary influence on him. Her wry sense of humour and tolerant demeanour had always been a source of comfort to her elder brother—and now was no exception.

‘So… I hear you’ve taken up trapping as a hobby,’ she noted airily as they walked. ‘And journeying off to the east of the Middle Sea. I hope these won’t be taking up too much of your time and your treasury?’

‘The trip to the Middle Sea was useful. Just ask Kveta Kostolanská if you doubt me.’

2021_07_03_42a.png

2021_07_03_43a.png

‘Translating medical texts is a time-consuming hobby as well, bro.’

‘True, but I’m not about to let it get in the way of the business of ruling.’

‘Well, that’s something at least,’ Katka grinned at her brother. ‘Not that I ever really took you for much of a ruler either, come to that. You’re way too… how should I say it? Idealistic.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Katarína,’ Bohodar grimaced in mock offence. ‘Always knew I could count on my close family to support me.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Katka replied placidly. ‘Who’s going to keep you down to earth, if we won’t? Wait… there’s always Kres.’

(Katka was one of very few people privileged enough, also, to call Czenzi ‘Kres’… and to use that privilege. The two of them were fairly close as sisters-in-law.) Botta shook his head and chuckled at the thought. It was true that Czenzi had always sought to keep his notions grounded in reality, tried not to quash but instead to curb his adventures into the shape of sense, and keep him sound and sane and healthy in the process.

‘Well. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve consulted her on this matter, at least.’

‘Good to hear, Daršik,’ Katka nodded. ‘Though I’ll say it again: you might also want to get Vojta’s opinion. And the young lady’s: since it’s them who’re going to have to live with your decision, their whole lives.’

Bohodar felt much better after their perambulation of the Olomouc foregate. Katka’s gentle, always well-meaning, teasing actually helped him put things in their proper light and perspective.

2021_07_03_34a.png
2021_07_03_36a.png

And then, once he was back in the castle, Czenzi greeted him with no less good humour. His loyal, proper, traditional Hungarian wife had a yen to celebrate his good health according to her own wifely prerogative (in chambers, on bed, with skirts hiked up over hips). This made Bohodar feel much better as well. And it was to no one’s surprise two months later when she found herself pregnant once again.

Unfortunately, Czenzi’s friend and Bohodar’s kancelárka Gorislava Pavelková had passed away of old age. She had left all her titles and her considerable wealth to her (truth be told, rather unprepossessing) son Nonn Zdravomilovič—and to Bohodar she had bequeathed one last word of well-considered rede: to look to the household of his šafár for a bride for his son. It was owing to this piece of advice that Bohodar took a second look at Hrabě Rodislav’s granddaughter.

2021_07_03_37a.png
2021_07_03_38a.png
2021_07_03_41a.png

Bohodar hadn’t remembered this Kostislava Balharská-Borsa with any particular degree of fondness. True enough, she had a very pretty face: rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, straight white teeth and all that, all framed by a lustrous and well cared-for pair of auburn braids. But there was no warmth to those eyes: they sparkled like shards of ice. She was agreeable, yes, but she had a kind of caginess in her speech that was startling to Bohodar, coming from the lips of a child of such tender years. The one time he’d met her, he’d come away with a very unfavourable impression of her.

Ah, well. First impressions could be misleading. The next time he went to Znojmo, he took Vojta along with him—and once Rodislav had welcomed them into his manor, Bohodar had taken his son aside and pointed out Kostislava to him.

Bohodar surreptitiously kept an eye on the girl throughout the meal, and Vojta did the same. Vojta, of course, saw little past her fair rosy cheeks and glimmering smile. But this time Bohodar observed more how she treated those around her—and this time his impression of her was considerably more favourable. She might not exude warmth, but Bohodar noticed how she helped her grandmother to her chair, how she made sure that her siblings were served before she loaded her own trencher, and how she gave the scraps to the dogs when she was done—patting them on the head when she thought no one was looking. So this was how Kostislava behaved in private!

‘Vojta,’ Bohodar asked, ‘what do you think of her?’

His son’s cheeks reddened. ‘Kostislava? Quite the comely young lady. Seems rather accomplished.’

Accomplished. High praise from the budding éminence grise. ‘You like her, then?’

2021_07_03_47a.png

Vojta nodded.

‘Well enough?’

‘Well enough,’ Vojta told his father firmly. ‘I’d have no objection to taking her as a bride.’

Bohodar talked to Rodislav together in private after that, making sure all could go smoothly for the banns, the bride-price and the dowry. Naturally, the hrabě was not going to say no to a direct familial alliance with his liege. He didn’t take a lot of arm-twisting, and he kept the haggling over the finical considerations blessedly short.

‘But, I say, milord—would you not consider staying for a feast in the young people’s honour? I mean, you’re already here, together with your Vojta, and in truth, me and Mila had been planning to hold a feast for quite some while already.’

‘Far be it from me to stand in the way, my vassal!’

2021_07_03_45a.png

And so the feast was prepared. Bohodar had been expecting, truth be told, something of a small, impromptu affair. The wine was a local Moravian vintage: but it was a surprisingly refreshing one. There were sausages, cheeses, fowl, berries, radishes and turnips—all of a select quality that surprised Bohodar, chosen and prepared at the very peak of their proper age of ripeness or soundness. The centrepiece was a yearling pig, cooked to perfection; the meat had a delicately-sweet glaze and a nice crispy exterior, but inside it was so tender it could almost melt in your mouth. Everything was prepared with wondrous attention and tasted exquisite, taking even Bohodar by surprise. The Kráľ was already happy that his son approved of the bride—he hadn’t been expecting to meet with such a palate-embracing repast!

Bohodar made something of a remark to this effect, to which the lady of the house—Hrabě Rodislav’s wife Pravomila—replied with composure:

‘And who would do any less, give any less, for kin? “What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?”’

‘That is certainly true,’ Bohodar nodded. The Kráľ wasn’t entirely certain that this was what Saint Matthew had meant when thus recounting these words of Our Lord, who was using this example when speaking of spiritual discipline, the necessity of not judging others before one had meetly judged oneself, not speaking of holy things to those who were not ready for them, and praying without cease. Still, the lady didn’t look like she was in the mood for such an involved theological discussion, and so Bohodar let that particular line of thought rest.

2021_07_03_49a.png
2021_07_03_48a.png

‘It’s truly the most important thing,’ Pravomila went on, ‘taking care of the younger folk who will come to take care of you in turn. It’s not like you can really rely on anyone else. And our Kostislava—truly she’s a dependable young girl, not likely to let anyone cheat her or get the upper hand. Kin look out for each other, you understand.’

Bohodar nodded. He had seen the solicitous young Kostislava help her grandmother to her seat at the table before and approved. He and Pravomila spent the rest of the evening talking children and (in her case) grandchildren, and Bohodar found he had a good deal in common with his hostess. When Bohodar returned home, it was in a truly refreshed frame of mind—having concluded this matter of business for Vojta, and having also come to a new appreciation for the lad himself.

2021_07_03_50a.png
 
  • 1Love
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Vojta and Kosti will not near his parents on the cuteness scale, but there is room for the great diplomat and the shy, kind hottie to have a good marriage. With his high diplomacy (is he above 20), Vojta may avoid the initial vassal revolt when his reign begins. Thank you for the update and do not let the lilliputians defeat Gulliver on Monday (maybe they can win on Friday).
 
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Book Four Chapter Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
Scions of a Kind
28 August 1160 – 22 February 1165

‘Turnips, cabbages, onions… what else were we supposed to get from the market?’

‘Fennel,’ Anna reminded her companionable aunt. ‘Tea for mother.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Rodana sniffed slightly at the queen-consort’s little… peculiarity. Assuredly, Rodana would not be among those women who personally breastfed their children. Of course, Czenzi had been thus attending to her latest niece, the fair-haired Blahomíra, for the past two years—and now somehow there was yet another child growing large in her womb, due soon! Rodana’s sister-in-law would evidently need a fairly steady long-term supply of fennel. ‘Sister has been extraordinarily blessed.’

2021_07_03_39a.png
2021_07_03_55a.png

Father can’t keep his hands off her, more like, Anna grumbled inwardly. Dear God in heaven, it’s embarrassing being seen with those two. Bad enough they hold hands in public, but—!

‘I say, niece,’ Rodana pointed out a roan animal being led to the stables by the groom as they left by the castle gate to the town. ‘That’s Dani’s horse, or I’m a plucked chicken. I’d know it in a heartbeat.’

‘What’s Uncle Dani doing in Olomouc?’ wondered Anna aloud. ‘It’s nearly harvest season—he should be tending to his Bohemian lands, not coming to court.’

Rodana raised her eyebrows mischievously at her niece. ‘I know one way we can find out, once we come back. Come on.’

The two girls ran off to the market and obtained the vegetables they had been sent for—including the fennel. On the way back, however, they came by a strange sight.

‘Someone’s been put in the husle,’ Anna remarked.

The husle in question was not a musical instrument, but instead an instrument of chastisement and public exposure which had been put to use by the magistrate of Olomouc since the institution of the general amnesty. It was a wooden plank with a hinge that had been designed to fit around the neck and wrists of the offender, with a chain connecting it to a central post, and with a bell hanging from the front to alert passers-by if they moved. The offenses for which time in the husle was prescribed were things like engaging in public brawl or disturbing the peace. Kráľ Bohodar didn’t entirely approve of the use of the husle, but the most he did against it was to forbid its use in winter.

In this case, the man who was in the husle was a well-known local drunk who had evidently been brought before the magistrate earlier in the day, for being loud and disruptive after the town watch had begun their night rounds. The middle-aged man looked miserable—draggle-bearded, bleary-eyed, hung over, with the slightly sour tang of stale vomit hanging around the fringes of his clothes and beard, and now with the mortification of public exposure to add to the physiological torment his devil of choice had left him with last night. Thankfully the King’s subjects in Olomouc were in something of a mild mood today—none had pelted him so far with anything more wounding than a scoff, a mild insult or an exhortation to sobriety. No—this poor soul in the husle had his punishment already, and much of it between his own ears.

‘Young misses,’ he called out hoarsely as Rodana and Anna passed by, not knowing them for the royalty they were, ‘could you bring me a bit of fresh water to wet my lips?’

2021_07_03_56a.png
2021_07_03_53a.png

Rodana, for her part, curled her lip and sauntered away. Clearly this filthy sot was ‘wet’ enough as it was from last night’s escapades. Rodana had been lucky in her upbringing—Kráľ Radomír had been a temperate sort, wont to wet his whistle with nothing worse than the occasional bowl of ale or Moravian wine (and one a night at that), and Alswit and her elder sister Katka never touched anything stronger than small beer. Rodana was blessedly and blissfully unaware of the cruelty of strong drink—that it can leave you far drier in the end than when you started.

Anna was about to do the same and follow after her aunt, walking away with an upturned nose. But then she remembered something her father had told her once. One or two things from the Gospel of Saint Matthew, which Bohodar especially loved to read: ‘And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain’, and ‘Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you: do ye even so to them’. She tried to imagine how it might feel if she were stuck in the husle after having done something naughty, with people around her pelting her with pebbles or harsh words. She turned aside to the public well and drew up a bucket of the water there, filling up her empty scrip and bringing it to the man under punishment to drink from. She offered it to his mouth and poured slowly, as he didn’t have the free use of his hands.

‘Thank you, miss! God remember you, miss!’ the hoarse voice called out to her as she ran to catch up with her aunt Rodana, with vegetables under-arm.

‘Waste of time,’ Rodana shook her head with a mildly-disdainful click of the tongue. ‘He’s only going to get himself landed in the husle again in a week, you know.’

‘That may be true,’ Anna defended herself, ‘but he’s had his punishment already. Surely it can’t be wrong to spare him further?’

When they got back up to the castle, Rodana did remember her brother’s horse, and the stables. She turned to Anna in excitement, the incident with the drunk from town forgotten. ‘Let’s go take a look at what Dani brought in his saddlebags! Just a harmless little peek won’t hurt, right?’

Anna wouldn’t have thought of it herself—and she certainly wouldn’t have gone sneaking around at a suggestion like this under normal circumstances. Still, Rodana was her best friend—that was one thing. And there was also the fact that… well, she had a certain other reason to go looking in at Dani’s things. Even though Anna was a bit mortified by her parents’ conspicuous closeness (as most girls would be at that age), she couldn’t help but feel a bit… curious. Not about Dani—no—but Dani’s wife, Felicita Bagrationi-Uplistsikhe. The older Georgian woman was so graceful, so mature, so… alluring, with her dark hair, her dark eyes… her lush full lips, which made Anna’s heart skip every time they smiled—which made her wish they’d smile at her that way. Was this strange feeling—was this what other girls her age felt for boys? Was it normal for her to feel this way about her uncle’s wife? But Anna had given Rodana the nod, herself only half-knowing the fascinations that drove her to it.

Rodana and Anna dutifully presented the vegetables they’d been sent for to the kitchen staff, and then snuck out the back, taking the narrow, shaded walk between the inner and outer walls of the castle around toward the back of the stables. The two naughty little girls climbed up the lattice on the rear, and slid into the loft through the thatching. Anna, the smaller of the two, got through first. She opened the trapdoor in the loft, swung her legs down, and dropped neatly into a loose pile of hay.

As luck would have it, she’d landed right next to Dani’s roan beast. The horse turned its head idly in her direction, but seeing nothing there but a dark-haired imp of a girl, the roan turned back away from her and continued its rest. Anna snuck over to where the saddlebags were hanging—on a nail halfway up the far post of the stall. Rodana, who by now had gotten safely through the thatching into the loft, poked her head down the trapdoor and gave her niece a gesture of encouragement. Anna lifted the soft leather flap of Dani’s saddlebag and sifted through the contents with her fingers.

There were a couple of tubular leather cases for carrying documents, as well as some spare clothes and a few loose coins. But—as Anna was lucky enough to discover—Uncle Dani carried with him a small linen satchel, within which was a locket. This locket contained a single lock of kinky black hair—it didn’t take Anna much guesswork to figure out whose it was. And the satchel also contained some lady’s perfume.

Anna knew it at once for Felicita’s. Her body responded with shudders as teenage hormones raged up and down her spine. Almost without knowing what she was doing, she lifted the linen satchel up to her nose and breathed the warm, spicy scent in deeply—allowing the dark smoky, sultry impressions of Felicità’s bare skin to imprint themselves on the poor teenage girl’s subconscious.

There was a sound of alarm from behind her. With a bit of annoyance at being yanked out of her olfactory reverie, Anna turned. Rodana was beckoning her to come back up and out—quickly. But Anna did not want to part with her newly-found treasure. The time she took in securing it cost her dearly. She had it stowed nearly fully away in the breast of her gown, and was making her way back up the pile of hay to the trapdoor, when a shadow fell across her path.

It was her father. Rodana retreated back up the loft and safely out of sight… but Anna was caught. She wouldn’t be able to reach the trapdoor in time. More: one drawstring of the linen satchel was still trailing over the front of her gown.

Bohodar lay a firm hand on Anna’s shoulder, and held out the other to receive her ill-gotten keepsake. With aching reluctance Anna parted with it. There was no sense hiding it now.

The Kráľ turned the linen satchel—an intimate gift from Felicita Bagrationi to her husband—over in his fingers, and then, without once leaving go his daughter’s shoulder, lifted the flap of Dani’s saddlebag and replaced the precious thing where it had been found.

‘Now,’ Bohodar told Anna, ‘what were you doing in here?’

Anna looked up into her father’s disappointed eyes, flushing brighter and hotter than she had ever done (so it seemed to her now). She wished that the trodden earth of the stall floor would open up and swallow her, but it stubbornly refused to acquiesce to her wishes.

‘I—I took it,’ she told her father in a small voice. ‘I went through Dani’s things, and I took that… because it looked pretty. And it reminded me of Aunt Felicita. I’m sorry—I know it was wrong.’

Bohodar’s hand squeezed Anna’s shoulder. He asked her gently: ‘You… admire Aunt Felicita?’

Anna was grateful for the ambiguous way her father had phrased that. She nodded, her eyes still low.

2021_07_03_58q.png
2021_07_03_59b.png

‘Well,’ Bohodar told her, ‘perhaps there are… better ways to show your admiration than stealing, what say you to that?’

Anna nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. Even this oblique scolding her father was giving her stung—as, of course, it was meant to. Her father’s disappointment was worse than any spanking.

‘Still—I’m happy that you told me the truth, without embellishment or excuse,’ Bohodar continued gently. ‘And I’m happy to have raised a daughter who knows the value of her word. You still, however, owe Uncle Dani an apology.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Anna answered her father.

~~~

2021_07_03_59a.png

The crash resounded in the courtyard, followed by the cries of half a dozen men. The tone of these cries was urgent and dire—even at this distance, Bohodar’s ears did pick up that much. And even in his current predicament (actually, his wife’s), Bohodar could not ignore such a cry when it came. With some effort he broke his concentration away from the door which led to his wife’s birthing-chamber, and flung himself down the stairs in the direction of the courtyard. It was several weeks after the incident in the stables with Anna, and their seventh child was past due.

Bohodar sprinted out the door and across the courtyard, where he could see that a half-moon of the castle watch had gathered: and there was an unconscious man right in the middle of them, lying in a pool of his own blood. And little wonder—the jagged end of what looked like a practice-spear was lodged deep in his side.

Actually, now that he was closer, Bohodar knew his face by sight. This red-bearded man was a scion of the kings Mojmír and Rastislav, kin to the kniežatá of Nitra: his name was Pribina Mikulčický. Now it was somewhat less wonder that he’d come by such an injury. Pribina was one of the most fearless, and simultaneously most incorrigible, of Bohodar’s watch-captains. His character could well be considered ‘foolhardy’. But this was no time to judge rights and wrongs. Pribina’s life was at stake and every minute would count.

Kveta Kostolanská was busy assisting the midwife with Czenzi. Botta wasn’t about to call her down. But he himself was here. He sent for a bucket of clean water and tore off a long section from his own tunic to serve as a basic tourniquet. He’d washed the wound and removed the jagged splinters, and was beginning to struggle in wrapping it around Pribina’s midsection when another face appeared, blessedly, in the half-ring of dismayed looks. It was Knieža Daniel.

‘Brother,’ Botta gestured to Dani. ‘Come here and help me!’

Daniel neither hesitated, nor dithered, nor asked needless questions. Instead he lent whatever adroitness was in his fingers and whatever muscle was in his shoulders and arms to do the king’s bidding, occasionally lending his own voice to whatever practical considerations Botta had overlooked and needed voicing. Somehow, the Kráľ of Moravia and the Knieža of the Czechs somehow muddled through together, and Pribina’s wound was cleaned and staunched. The man was out senseless and would likely be weak and tender for the next few weeks—but he would live.

A sweating, panting Bohodar turned to Dani. ‘Thanks, brother.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Dani told him, clouting the king friendly on the shoulder.

2021_07_03_60a.png

When it came time, Daniel accompanied Bohodar up to the chamber he’d come from. By the time they got there, Kveta was already waiting for them. The pair of them made quite a sight—sweating, tired, and smeared with large gouts of another man’s blood. But Kveta kept her composure and held out an infant girl for her father’s inspection.

‘Milady the Queen already gave her a name,’ Kveta told him. ‘Apparently that’s “Eva” you’re holding.’

‘Hello there, Eva,’ Botta swayed gently with the newborn. Daniel looked over his shoulder and grinned.

‘She’s pretty, your Eva. Looks a lot like our Slávka,’ Dani noted. That was no small praise—Slávka Rychnovská was only two, but already quite the prepossessing little princess.

‘That’s hardly a surprise—the two of them are cousins.’

‘Even so.’

2021_07_03_57a.png

Bohodar handed the baby back to Kveta. ‘How’s Czenzi doing?’

‘She’s well. But she’s getting on in years for childbirth—come back after she’s had some time to rest.’

Bohodar nodded his understanding and sympathy, asking Kveta to promise Czenzi for him that he’d come and visit her later, and went off with Dani.

‘By the by,’ Dani said to Botta, ‘I never got the chance to thank you for talking with Burgomistress Guta. I don’t know what it was you told her about me, but she’s been much more cooperative with me since then. Lot less reticent.’

‘I only told her the truth,’ Bohodar shrugged.

‘Is that so?’ Dani laughed diffidently. ‘I’m surprised she isn’t more reticent now!’

‘Well…’ Bohodar shrugged. ‘I told her about Benny.’

‘No!’

‘I told her all about Benny—how you kept dragging that dirty ragged old thing around like a baby till you were nine. I also told her about you chasing Živa all over the courtyard and into the town.’

‘You didn’t!’ Dani laughed nervously. ‘Did you?’

‘I did,’ Botta deadpanned.

Dani swung a fist, pummelled Bohodar hard in the back, and laughed. ‘You’re terrible!’

Bohodar kicked a stone aside in his stride. ‘Dani—you’re my brother. If I’d gone and showered you with nothing but praises from the off in front of our good Burgomistress, she’d have been suspicious, and rightly so. But… you know… Guta’s a mother with grown children of her own. She understands boys. Letting her know these things about you—that helped build her sympathy. From there, it was only a simple matter to convince her of your judiciousness and goodwill.’

2021_07_03_61a.png
2021_07_03_62a.png

Dani smirked, offering a gentler hit this time. ‘Well… thanks. I guess.’

‘Anytime, bro!’

‘Given how successful your ploy was with Anna—and I’m still not sure you did me a completely good turn there—I take it your little “test” worked just as well with Anna?’ asked Dani.

Bohodar sighed. ‘She’s a sharp one. Saw right through it.’

Dani breathed out a low whistle.

‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s a kindhearted one, as well as being quick-witted—I’m sure she noticed something was “off” about the whole situation. Of course she insisted on taking the animal home, nursing it back to health and releasing it back into the woods… but she’s still suspicious of me.’

‘Maybe this will teach you to be more straightforward with your wards,’ Dani twirled a stray lock of his thin red beard innocently.

Bohodar chuckled. ‘Maybe.’

2021_07_03_63a.png
 
  • 1Love
  • 1Like
Reactions:
I agree with Anna, her parents are too cute. Six kids, approaching middle age, but still act like young people that are first learning about the opposite sex. Does Anna become homosexual (I did not see clue in her twelve year old portrait)? Thank you for the update and good luck with your young charges.

Did you change your avatar?
 
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Vojta and Kosti will not near his parents on the cuteness scale, but there is room for the great diplomat and the shy, kind hottie to have a good marriage. With his high diplomacy (is he above 20), Vojta may avoid the initial vassal revolt when his reign begins.

Yup. Vojtech is indeed a talker, rather than a fighter--a quality that ends up helping him out at least once.

Thank you for the update and do not let the lilliputians defeat Gulliver on Monday (maybe they can win on Friday).

So far I've met about two-thirds of the class, one-on-one, for assessments. Cute bunch themselves. I can already tell there's a couple of 'em I need to keep my eyes on.

I agree with Anna, her parents are too cute. Six kids, approaching middle age, but still act like young people that are first learning about the opposite sex. Does Anna become homosexual (I did not see clue in her twelve year old portrait)? Thank you for the update and good luck with your young charges.

Yeah, she's got the red 'homosexual' alignment icon (just to the right of her 'righteous empath' AI personality tag). Along with or shortly after that 'Servant of Honesty' event; I thought I'd tie the two together.

Did you change your avatar?

Yeah, the Prussian / East German flag from Vic2. Probably jumping the gun there. So far I haven't even taken my Upper Saxony game through EU4 yet.

Cheers, and thanks for reading!
 
  • 1
Reactions:
Just a heads-up for folks, I beg your pardon if my updates come a bit more slowly for the next few months. I've taken on a position at a local school, essentially as a kindergarten TA.
No need, take your time, and:
apologises in anticipation of slowing down on chapters --> proceeds to write several more --> while starting another aar lol never change mate, cheers:D
And congratulations, and bon courage for the hardest occupation human-beings ever devised.
 
  • 1Like
  • 1
Reactions:
Book Four Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Two Hearts as Close
5 March 1165 – 24 July 1166

Bohodar traced a finger down Czenzi’s shoulder, as he lay behind her, big spoon, beneath the covers. The two of them were lax in afterglow, comfortable in each other’s warmth.

Her tawny skin was no longer bright and flawlessly smooth with youth, but in some places mottled with the marks of middle age. The hairs which teased across it were no longer solid sable-black, but streaked here and there with strands of silver. Botta slid his hand down. The proud and prominent curves which he had admired and desired in his youth, had gently sloped and drooped with use—the flow and ebb of mother’s milk. He slid his hand further down. His fingers brushed over the long, thin traces upon her wame, of their seven children, who had lain and grown and been born within. And he slid his hand still further down. There was a notable sag now to her haunches—the horsewoman’s haunches that had been so firm and strong when he’d wooed her, but which had grown accustomed to an easy life as the lady of castle and kingdom.

But she had never before, in Botta’s eyes, been as beautiful as this. Never before as desirable. It felt wrong even to call these marks of age ‘imperfections’, because they were so familiar and reassuring to him! Were these the eyes of love he saw her through? Was this the feel of love? There were no secrets between them—not even the secrets he learned of his vassals were kept hidden from her. Was she the dearer and the sweeter to him for being his, for having been his so faithfully and so long, that to touch her was like the feeling of an old leather glove?

2021_07_03_71a.png

‘What are you doing?’ Czenzi sighed in sleepy tolerance into her pillow. ‘Haven’t you had enough?’

‘I can never get enough of you,’ Botta murmured back to her. ‘But I didn’t mean… I was just thinking…’

‘Mm?’

Botta shook his head. Never mind. To say aloud to her in mere words, what he thought and felt now, would be to cheapen it. Instead he let his hands speak for him, to let her understand through a more intimate mode of expression. Czenzi turned around where she lay to face him, and traced his cheek and neck in turn. She gave a slight smile as she returned his reverent gaze. Yes, she understood what he meant. And evidently, she felt the same way.

~~~​

‘Still got it,’ Czenzi told her husband a couple of months after, having emerged from their bedroom.

‘No… it can’t be,’ Bohodar smiled.

‘It is. Your seed is strong, my flesh is fertile, and the Mother of God, blessed among women, is gracious.’

Czenzi drew her husband’s hand down to her belly… where their eighth child was. Bohodar laughed aloud, and looked into his wife’s merrily sparkling amber lights. She had passed her forty-sixth birthday, but their bed was still warm with passion, and somehow she still had the gift—her earth was still receptive and lush with life. It seemed to be the will of God that the royal nursery be filled to overflowing with their Moravian-Hungarian scamps, both black- and fair-avised.

One more to join the nursery, just as another had left it! Seemed fitting. Not only had their eldest two already begun making their way in the world, but Bohodar’s youngest sister Rodana as well. The elder brother had hoped Rodana would follow in his and their father’s footsteps, but evidently the life of knowledge and contemplation was not exactly the one for her.

2021_07_03_67a.png
2021_07_03_64a.png

Bohodar went straight back into the bedroom after Czenzi had settled down to breakfast, knelt in front of the iconostasis and gave thanksgiving to the Most Holy Mother of God for her blessings upon him and Czenzi.

Many had been the blessings that they had enjoyed. He had two sisters, one of whom he respected deeply as a friend, a younger brother who was a loyal vassal. He had seven children—all of whom were remarkably intelligent and virtuous, each after their own personality—and another on the way. And he had Czenzi: more loyal than a spaniel, more reliable than a draught horse, as patient and humble as a saint… the only woman he’d ever love.

And, as king, he had managed to retain the peace of the realm without disturbance.

Actually, that part was no mystery. Bohodar had, in fact, spent a great deal of time and energy on actively maintaining the justice of the realm, to keep violence far from the horizon. On the surface, it was a matter of a ready ear and an open hand. When Bohodar visited a town, a village or a manor within his realm, he took care to listen not only to his host, but to his host’s household. He took care to observe the children in particular where he went. He asked about the winters and the roads. In this wise, he was able to assign Rodislav Balharski-Borsa to the towns and fiefs that needed the most attention—and the roads were well cared-for and safe. Banditry was rare, and Bohodar was broadly hailed as a caring monarch with a popular touch.

Regular gifts were enough to keep most of his vassals contented. Czenzi’s friendship had been enough to pacify Slavomíra’s and Gorislava’s ambitions, while they lived—and, of course, now it was her cousin Ľubava who was happily eating out of her hand. The fact that his son and heir was marrying Rodislav Balharski-Borsa’s granddaughter was enough to keep his šafár loyal. (Though Bohodar had sent Rodislav the carcase of a great hart which he’d managed to bring down in the late spring.)

2021_07_03_75a.png
2021_07_03_66a.png

But that was just on the surface. Bohodar had quickly learned that a bit of subtlety was required under the table… not that subterfuge was his strong suit, but his natural intelligence was such that he’d picked up on a few of the basics. He’d long had a suspicion that Bystrík Mikulčický had been behind the attempt on his life and Czenzi’s in their forest dwelling, but had never been able to prove it. And although, in the open, he got along fairly well with Bystrík, there had nevertheless been several incidents—diplomatic faux pases, various forms of interference with state affairs from within his own household… All of these incidents had borne the subtle signature of having originated in Nitra, or were otherwise somehow connected with the place. Bystrík had clearly not given up his efforts to undermine Bohodar’s rule from the shadows. As a result, Bohodar played his cards fairly close to his chest when consulting with concerned parties, making calls upon vassals, managing his household or entertaining foreign delegations and persons of importance—and he structured these events such that Bystrík would not get a firm hold on them until after the plans were already well in place and in hand.

Czenzi gave birth to another healthy baby girl. Although both she and her husband were more than happy with this late blessing they’d been given, still Bohodar detected a faint trace of sadness in her.

‘What’s wrong, kedvesem?’

Czenzi hesitated, shook her head—then spoke: ‘She is beautiful and precious, just like all of our children. It’s just that—in all this time since Vojta was born, I’d hoped I’d give birth to another boy! I wanted to name at least one of our children after you.’

Bohodar was touched. He stroked a lock of his wife’s hair away from her sweating brow, and told her gently: ‘Well… you could always call her Bohdana, couldn’t you?’

2021_07_03_69a.png

‘Bohdana?’ Czenzi tilted her head doubtfully, then looked back down at the pink, doughy-faced little infant in her arms, with just the barest dusting of dark hair upon her still-soft scalp. She returned her gaze to her husband, and smiled. ‘And what patron would “Bohdana” take for her own, then? Not Saint Matthew, as yours is!’

‘The martyr and virgin Dorota of Cæsarea, I believe, is the patron of Bohdanas in the Slavic lands,’ the knowledgeable king answered.

Czenzi considered. ‘One of the martyrs of the Persecution of Diocletian, hm? Very well… Bohdana she is.’

‘I’ll have the painter commission an icon of Saint Dorota for the chapel before her churching,’ Bohodar promised his wife.

The icon collection of the personal palace chapel at Olomouc had grown significantly since Bohodar’s marriage to Czenzi. The icons of Christ, the Theotokos, Saint John the Baptist and the Icon-Not-Made-By-Hands had seemingly always been there. The icon of Saint Matthew the Evangelist, of course, the patron of Bohodar slovoľubec and all of the Bohodars after him, enjoyed a certain pride of place, as did Saint Martin the Merciful (the patron of the Radomírs). Saint Crescentia of Lucania—Czenzi’s patron—was currently prominently displayed, as was Saint Ealhswiþ, the patron of Bohodar’s mother Alswit.

And then of course there were the icons of Great Martyr Catherine of Alexandria (for Katka), Holy Prophet Daniel (for Dani), Virgin Martyr Gaianē of Armenia (for Rodana). For Czenzi and Bohodar’s children there were: Equal-to-the-Apostles Helen the mother of Constantine; for Vojta a certain locally-recognised saint, Adalbert of Praha, who had been martyred in the north while preaching among the pagan Poles; the Holy and Righteous Ancestors of God Joachim and Anna; Saint Chloë of Corinth (for Rósza); Queen Blažena’s old icon of Virgin Martyr Beatrix (scarcely used by said ancestress, now venerated a bit more diligently by her descendant); an icon of the Protecting Veil of Our Lady (for Blahomíra); and one of the Holy Resurrection (for Eva). An icon of Virgin Martyr Dorota would not be difficult to add!

The icon was already painted, blessed and shown when Bohdana herself was dunked three times in the Morava, and afterward presented at the altar.

It was sometime after this that—of all men—Bystrík Mikulčický, the Knieža of Nitra, issued a very polite invitation of the king and his family to a feast at his hall in Nitra, delivered decorously by one of the zbrojnošov of his personal retinue. Such honours from the descendants of Mojmír extended to the dynasts from Rychnov nad Kněžnou were rare and precious indeed, and Kráľ Bohodar felt he would have been deeply remiss to refuse. For her part, Czenzi was quite excited to receive the invitation.

2021_07_03_76a.png

‘What would you say, dear,’ asked Bohodar, ‘to giving the Mikulčických a nice full dinner set of Bohemian crystal as a gift?’

‘It would certainly be valuable enough,’ Czenzi considered. ‘Yes. I like the idea of bringing glassware, but guests in our position ought to be careful. If we offer them a full dinner set, and bring it with us as a gift for a feast they’ve prepared—the hostess might consider it an insult to her hospitality, as though we are passing a judgement upon their current wares.’

‘Ah,’ the king nodded, appreciating his wife’s diplomatic subtlety.

‘Perhaps a vase… or a wine decanter of Bohemian glass,’ Czenzi indicated with a decisive finger. ‘Our hostess would not be offended if we offer an additional centrepiece. And… perhaps some silver or cast-iron figurines? Bystrík strikes me as somewhat of a collector—not keeping the figurines necessarily to play or model with, but just to have and appreciate.’

Bohodar laughed. ‘What would I do without you? You’re two steps ahead of me on this.’

‘And that’s why you love me,’ Czenzi grinned.

Once Bohodar and his consort arrived in Nitra, the Kráľ had a chance to appreciate just how correct his wife was. Bystrík had pulled out all the stops. The wine, which had been imported from Byzantium, was of the very highest quality—unwatered, sweet and strong. Bystrík had set out all manner of fine pastries: sweet rolls dipped in honey and crushed almonds; rolled záviny filled with apples, blueberries, cherries and other such confections; feathery-light laskonky, delicately-sweet, dripping with buttercream. This in addition to the full roast pig on a spit; chickens, ducks, quails and other gamefowl done to perfection with crispy skin and succulent meat; eggs of the same prepared in mouthwateringly savoury ways; turnips and radishes prepared with both savoury and sweet sauces; candied apples and plums. All of it so elaborately and ornately shown out upon platters of silver and silver-plate and intricately-coloured glassware, that it was as much a feast to the palate of the eyes as to that of the nose and the tongue. (Of a sudden, Bohodar was happy of his wife’s considerate advice not to bring the entire Bohemian glassware dinner set as a gift—surely she was right about how it would be received here!)

2021_07_03_78a.png

Their host, his bushy salt and pepper beard stretching at the edges in the delight of anticipation, appeared before them. Bystrík spread his arms wide and said to the assembled guests, casting a more lingering glance over the royal couple who had arrived— ‘Everyone, please sit! Be comfortable and be merry! Enjoy in the graciousness of Our Lord and Saviour the blessings of this day!’

There was not one mouth in that hall which showed any trace of displeasure or anguish as they all sat down and set to. Bohodar found himself seated next to an elderly, choleric-faced burgomaster with whom he was not familiar, of a local town named Levice not too far from Nitra, who went by the name of Drahomír. Bohodar struck up a most intriguing conversation with the fellow, who possessed a rather limited store of information and that of a rather parochial quality. But despite this paucity of external knowledge, Drahomír was blessed with the infinitely more important clarity of mind, open goodwill and curiosity that Bohodar found not only refreshing but admirable, and rendered him a most companionable conversation partner. The two of them spoke happily about the state of Drahomír’s town and the surrounding villages, the various guests he’d entertained at Levice, the recent surplus of crops and tax receipts, and the plans that Drahomír was entertaining for improvements to Levice on the basis of this newfound wealth.

2021_07_03_79a.png

‘Was a youngster came by on the Užhorod road, name of Branislav,’ Drahomír was saying. ‘Told me that our town water wheel that we use for the mill could stand some repair, and even made some suggestions for improving the scoops. See here, this is what he showed me—’

Drahomír began to draw with the edge of his knife upon his plate, using wine as ink, the general shape of the new scoop that Branislav had suggested. ‘He said if it were angled this way, we might catch more of the river, get more turns out of the water each minute, than if we just kept them straight. Also might save us wear on the wheel itself.’

‘Ahhh…’ Bohodar nodded. This was not his particular area of expertise, but he could tell that the design might indeed work the way it was promised. ‘A fair idea. Did he model it for you? And what was the price he offered?’

‘Well, he—’

At that point, Bohodar felt a tug on his left sleeve. Czenzi had so gestured, to get his attention. Making a noise of polite disengagement from Drahomír, he turned to his wife.

‘I do not wish to worry you, my love,’ Czenzi told him. ‘But Bystrík our host has not taken his eyes off you this entire time you’ve been speaking with Drahomír. Perhaps it’s nothing, but my thumbs prick.’

Do not wish to worry me! Bohodar thought incredulously. Well, that was exactly what he was doing now. Indeed, now that Bohodar’s eyes were more turned toward the high table, Bystrík seemed to have left off the intensity of that regard slightly, and turned to the guest seated on his left instead. And that was when Bohodar took notice of a large, gleaming, enticing confection made up of caramelised pears—that had been set by one of the servants right before his eyes. Right within his reach… and that of no other guest save Drahomír and Czenzi.

Now, Kráľ Bohodar loved pears. And he loved caramel. The people who knew this intimate detail of his were privileged indeed—Czenzi was one such.

‘Eat nothing the other guests don’t eat,’ Czenzi cautioned him in a low voice.

2021_07_03_80a.png

Bohodar needed no second reminder. But each time he caught Bystrík looking his way it was with an odd gleam in his eye. And—was it just paranoid fancy? Or did it seem to him that Bystrík’s temper with the servants grew shorter and shorter, each time the host noted that the caramelised pears had not been touched?

With a brusque and irritable clap of the hands, Bystrík ordered the desserts to be carried away and for another round of wine to be served. If there had been anything wrong with those pears, Bohodar would never know now… though perhaps that was for the best. Bohodar came away from that feast in Nitra with a still deeper appreciation for his consort, who may well have just saved his life.
 
  • 1Love
  • 1Like
Reactions:
No need, take your time, and:
apologises in anticipation of slowing down on chapters --> proceeds to write several more --> while starting another aar lol never change mate, cheers:D
And congratulations, and bon courage for the hardest occupation human-beings ever devised.

Cheers, @filcat!

Yeah, this does seem to be something of a pattern with me. Should probably curb output while I'm ahead, right?

... Nahh. I'm looking forward too much to Book Five.

And thanks for the congratulations! The little ones are a barrel of fun so far, but the real work's going to start soon.
 
  • 1
Reactions:
Botta and Czenzi may be Moravia's greatest royal couple and there have some great ones. Is 46 a semi-hard baby cap for women in CK3 as in CK2 (I have seen one in mid fifties)? Thank you for the update and do not let the pint-sized world conquerors take you hostage.
 
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Botta and Czenzi may be Moravia's greatest royal couple and there have some great ones.

They're certainly up there among my favourites. IMHO, Robin and Ilse (whom I introduced in the EU4 megacampaign continuation but who will figure strongly toward the end of this campaign) give them a run for their money. And then we have several more couples in between who were... a bit less fortunate.

Is 46 a semi-hard baby cap for women in CK3 as in CK2 (I have seen one in mid fifties)?

Yes, in most cases women in CK3 don't begin pregnancies past the age of 45. I believe the fertile trait loosens that cap to the age of 50.

Thank you for the update and do not let the pint-sized world conquerors take you hostage.

Cheers!

(My legs feel like they're full of rocks right now. Chasing five- and six-year-olds around for six hours a day over a four-day week, even happy ones, will do that to you.)
 
  • 1
Reactions:
Book Four Chapter Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Balharská-Borsa
3 December 1166 – 2 August 1168


2021_07_03_86a.png

‘Father?’ came the daughter’s familiar voice. ‘What are you up to?’

Bohodar looked up from his alchemical apparatus and toward where his insatiably-curious daughter had come into the room. He smiled as he beheld Anna’s face, her small nose wrinkling at the malodorous pall hanging about her father’s laboratory, then showed her what he was working on.

‘I’m trying to refine some of my ancestor Slovoľubec’s theories,’ Bohodar showed her. ‘He set up an experiment similar to this one, which produced a shiny yellowish substance when lead was heated up in a cast-iron vessel with burning pine resin amid molten brimstone.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Anna. ‘Well, that explains the smell. You be careful, Father—I hear folk are already calling you “another Slovoľubec”, and you might well end up stuck with that reputation.’

‘There are worse things,’ Bohodar shrugged. ‘The founder of our house wasn’t a bad sort, from what I’ve read of him.’

2021_07_03_90a.png

2021_07_03_90b.png

‘And do you think you’ll succeed where he didn’t? At least, here in the laboratory.’

Bohodar laughed. ‘Even with our ancestor’s translation of the Risâlat in hand along with the original, I doubt I’ll make much headway myself. But I have made some other substances out of the original base with different processes, which I’ve taken note of in my journals.’

Anna pored over them, her delicate eyebrows rising appreciatively. ‘Sweet lead, salt of Saturn and vinegar of Saturn—you went back to the old “golden rain” experiment here, I see. Natural enough place to start. Massicot, litharge, red and white lead, of course, and that wretched Venetian stuff… and then with the non-lead bases: green and blue vitriol. Verdigris. Powder of Algaroth. Regulus of antimony. Butter of tin. Fulminating substances. You’ve been busy here.’

‘I see you recognise them from my notes,’ Bohodar answered his daughter. ‘You’ve been busy as well!’

‘I pay attention, and I listen,’ Anna answered modestly. ‘People who don’t tend to… lose their edge. Speaking of which—what’s this I hear from Mother? That bastard Bystrík tried to have you poisoned this summer just gone?!’

‘Mm,’ Bohodar muttered darkly.

‘I hope you’re not accepting any more invites,’ Anna told him archly. ‘Lucky thing Mother was there with you, else… I don’t want to think of it.’

‘Well, you’ll be happy to know that I’m not going back to Nitra anytime soon,’ Bohodar assured her.

‘I am. A bit. I still wish you wouldn’t alienate your kin. Last time I saw Vojvoda Svätopluk he didn’t seem too happy with you.’

2021_07_03_88a.png

Bohodar regarded his daughter thoughtfully. Anna was among the brightest of his children, and he had grown close to her as she’d grown up. She was one of the few among his offspring who could hold her own in discussing theology or history or politics with him, and the fact that she knew her alchemy as well was an added bonus. An idea was forming in his mind, but he kept it percolating along with the various oils and vitriols he was concocting for some time before he broached it to Anna.

‘Anka—you’re going to come of age soon.’

‘I’m aware.’

2021_07_03_70a.png
2021_07_03_94a.png

‘No need to give me that look. With age come responsibilities,’ Bohodar continued amicably. ‘Now that Kveta Kostolanská is no longer with us, what would you say to taking on some of her duties, once you’re ready for them?’

‘Me, sir?’ Anna blossomed into a becoming smile. ‘Be the court leech?’

‘You surely have the gift. Not all the duties at once, of course. And I’d see to it you’d be compensated accordingly,’ her father told her. ‘I’d be willing to give you an advance of ten denár once you start.’

2021_07_03_95a.png
2021_07_03_96a.png

‘That’s not all there is to it,’ Anna said, a slight cloud coming over her brow.

‘… No, it isn’t.’ Bohodar was getting better about being more straightforward with his wards—and Anna in particular he knew well enough not to try to conceal the truth from her. She was naturally perceptive and, after the incident with the doe, understandably suspicious. ‘If you’re going to be my court leech, I would want you anchored here for good. I’d have to arrange a morganatic marriage for you… and I’ve already found a willing boy.’

Anna’s nose wrinkled more than when she’d first stepped foot in the room. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Rogvolod,’ Bohodar answered her. ‘A White Russian, recently hosted by the lord of Šrensk.’

Anna sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I must, if I must.’

2021_07_03_97a.png
2021_07_03_98a.png

Bohodar looked at his daughter with some concern. ‘I know you have… different tastes. The benefit about Rogvolod, in my view, is that he seems to be a fairly tolerant and understanding young lad.’

Anna shook her head. ‘No, father. Don’t worry about me. I know my duties. I shall fulfil them.’

~~~​

Bohodar was a great deal more sanguine about the marriages of his older children. Helene had been married off to Mavrikios son of Nerseh, the heir to the Euxine port city of Lykostomo on the Danube—a politically advantageous match. And then, of course, there was the match between Vojtech Rychnovský and Kostislava Balharská-Borsa. A son and heir’s job was to get more sons—Kostislava had the physical enticements, and Vojta had the will. That boded well enough for the Moravian Kráľ.

2021_07_03_93a.png

The blood of the great Khan Krum and Khan Presian of the Bulgars flowed in the Balharski dynasty. This once proud dynasty had seen its fortunes decline precipitously since the days of Eustach. What had once been the Bulgarian Empire had been riven apart into various feuding principalities and petty kingdoms—those parts of it, that is, that hadn’t been swiftly swallowed up between the Byzantines on the one hand, the Vlachs and the Magyars on the other. Many prominent Bulgarian families had sought refuge in Moravia in the wake of these wars. By the time the Balharski-Borsas showed up in Znojmo, the blood of the Great Bulgarian Khans had thinned to a mere trace. They had already intermarried with numerous successive generations of Rus’ and Slovien women: Rodislav’s wife was Pravomila Devínská; their son Ivan had married Slávka Rychnovská-Kluczbork. Kostislava was their daughter.

The time-honoured handfasting of the two youths had taken place in Znojmo. As the Balharská girl appeared, it was clear that the ‘ripening on the vine’ had been all to the good for her. Her heavy auburn braids, twined through with red ribbons as the custom demanded, had grown fuller, sleeker, richer in the intervening five years since Vojta had seen her last. Her high cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes gave her an earthy, matronal allure even at the tender age of sixteen, and her apple-wedge lips couldn’t have been redder if they were petals on a late-summer Bulgarian rose.

As for Kostislava—looking at the king’s son (whose rank gave him an appeal all its own) she saw a becomingly-tall man with a thick crop of lustrous black curls on his head, a neatly-trimmed beard, and a pair of dark eyes nearly as pretty as a girl’s. Yes—she would be more than happy to marry this young man. She extended her hand, and her groom gripped it.

According to the time-honoured Slavic custom shared between the Bulgarians and the Moravians, the handfasting was the point of no return. All the rest of the ceremony was formality, as the groom’s family and the bride’s family haggled over the fine points of the nuptial agreement, honoured and renewed their pledges of political assistance, swapped gifts or undertook various ceremonial competitions, mock fights and staged kidnappings. If Vojta and Kostislava chose to touch and kiss each other, or even to sleep together at her manor during their handfasting and prior to their vows, that was broadly considered to be their right and prerogative: the families were already bound. This was one of those areas in which the Church piously frowned upon the local traditions, but didn’t speak too loudly on the matter particularly where powerful local families were concerned.

But Vojta and Kostislava kept themselves circumspectly apart during the handfasting—neither bride nor groom were inclined to make any particular rush of things. Kostislava was still a virgin when she exchanged her red ribbons for strands of pearl, and then tossed her strands of pearl to her maids. And she remained so when she put her arms around Vojta’s neck, was lifted up by the backs of her knees, and carried over the threshold into Olomouc Castle.

And the once-mighty Balharski family’s position within the Moravian patrimony was thus rendered secure—as it would so remain for several generations afterward. Perhaps the Balharskis would return to their former greatness, and become mighty again once more.

2021_07_03_100b.png

2021_07_03_100a.png
 
  • 1Love
  • 1Like
Reactions:
Well, that's another marriage that's up to a good start, it seems. Kostislava both has an agreeable personality, smarts and... other benefits. Vojta's understandably happy, for now at least.
 
  • 1
Reactions: