THREE
Wreath of Bronze
5 December 1224 – 14 January 1227
ANY feats of heroism worthy of glory in song were done in the war of succession which accompanied Kaloján’s rise. But the dispute over Krakov with the
Pán of Věluň was decided in a single battle. Although the armies of the king were not quick enough on the march to save the castle at Krakov from siege and seizure, still they were able to meet Miloslav’s knights and men upon his return. There followed in Věluň a great bloodletting, as Kolman the Monk led the Moravians into battle against the returning Věluňian Poles and hacked them to pieces in their ranks.
Pán Miloslav was forced to a surrender on the spot—for now he faced the fury of a Moravia united, and no longer riven along its western quarter.
Miloslav had been forced to his knees. But, my children, Kaloján was troubled.
And what troubles a man, who fears no other man? And what unsettles a knight and brings him low, who managed to fight three of Bohemia’s best knights to a halt in single combat? Why, a woman, of course!
In the late Bohemian uprising, Kaloján was compelled to call upon the aid of his Sorbian kinsman Wizlaw. It so happened that Wizlaw invited the new
Kráľ to dine with him on the road back to Praha, and Kaloján was most pleased to accept. Young, carefree, beardless Kaloján was seated as the guest of honour in the hall at Míšeň, when
Vojvoda Wizlaw struck at him with the deadliest weapon imaginable.
A brimming glass goblet of wine was poured for the
Kráľ. And the hand which handed it to him was a soft, slender, warm, flawless white. As was the arm it belonged to. As was the woman to whom the arm belonged. Why, how stingy it would be to call her ‘fair’! Her beauty was of the Slavic type: round cheeks upon a round face, with a slightly-upturned nose, her head wreathed with a braid of bronze. In the
Kráľ’s smitten eyes she was as worthy of reverence as the Panagia!
The wine in his goblet was untouched, but Kaloján still felt drunk upon this sight! This snowy pulchritude bore herself in every movement and gesture with simplicity and sincerity and grace. My children, how could Kaloján see her, and not love her? However, as open and clear as she was, she couldn’t hide from Kaloján a certain melancholy. This noble beauty was labouring, so seemed it to Kaloján, under some long and hopeless sadness. But just as an icon of the Mother of the Lord at the Cross expresses upon her face a sorrow so complete that one’s heart cannot but be moved by it—so too was Kaloján stirred to a deeper love in sympathy by this young woman’s sorrow.
‘What woman is she?’ asked Kaloján of his host, indicating the one who had served him wine.
‘Bohumila is my guest. Your own vassal and kinsman,
Kráľ—the
Vojvoda Svätopluk of the Opolanie—is her elder brother,’ answered Wizlaw. But he marked Kaloján’s gaze, and added: ‘Put any thought of her from your head,
Kráľ! Her brother has already promised her to another man: I wot not whom.’
Wizlaw’s rede, however, fell upon ears only half-hearing. Had this wondrous girl’s betrothal been to her liking? Evidently not! Kaloján could not help but continue to gaze at her, as a mountain astronomer toward the Pole Star. And he swore to himself a vow: that he would free her from a shackle that she had not chosen for herself.
Many sleepless weeks did the
Kráľ spend, haunted by Bohumila! The beauty and the sorrow of her face could not be banished from him; still less could the touch of her soft white hand upon his in Wizlaw’s hall! Kaloján stood from his bed and knelt before the Panagia to keep himself from sin, and he prayed and prayed to her and to the Lord Christ for Bohumila, for her kin, and for the unravelling of the unwanted knot which tied her. But—was it the Lord’s doing?—the prayer transformed itself into a plan.
For the world, though, the
Kráľ would not have trespassed unknowing or unwelcome upon the presence of this beauty! Thus, the first task he set himself, was to learn more of her—Bohumila, this wondrous girl who had taken captive his heart! Kin she was, of Silesian blood
[1], and her brother
vojvoda of the Silesian March. Of course, he would not approach her
eldest brother Svätopluk for this task. But, praise be to God—she had also a
second elder brother, named Daniel!
The young king Kaloján rode to Praha and made himself known to Daniel. Unfortunately, the young man—who was himself only about a year or so older than the king—seemed more than a bit agitated and distracted when he received the king.
‘Daniel—what troubles you?’ asked the king solicitously.
Daniel laughed bitterly. ‘An it were a mere matter of steel and sinew, I would
have no trouble! But what do you think? Because I supported my uncle Prisnec in this late rebellion rather than you, the Rychnovských place no trust in me—not for gold, not for honour! O
Kráľ, for standing against you in arms, I know you bear me no love! But I beg you, as a man of honour—speak a good word in the ears of Vieroslav and of Henrík, and assure them of my credit?’
Kaloján stroked his beardless chin before he spoke. ‘I bear you no grudge for standing against me in the open, upon the line of battle! And yet… what says your uncle of you? Were you steadfast in your oaths, and attentive in your service to him?’
Daniel straightened his shoulders, and Kaloján beheld in his eyes the same earnestness that his sister bore so well. ‘I never once fled before my lord’s face!’ he declared. ‘I fought against you fairly and with courage, and slew many foes! And whether in victory or in retreat: my body stood between my uncle and whatever peril faced him!’
Kaloján placed his hands upon the shoulders of his once-foe, and fathomed him. ‘In that case, Daniel, you may be assured of my good word to our kin: whenever and whereforever they ask it of me!’
My children, Kaloján would have done, and indeed did, the same for many who opposed him. Understand that as yet, he had asked nothing of Daniel to win the favour of the woman who had taken his fancy. But such was the heart of the Moravian king, that he paid respect to all respectable, and opened his hand in giving to all regardless of their desserts. But toward the
Kráľ, Daniel now felt a deep sense of gratitude, and spake with him freely. It was natural that the two of them would begin to have speech together about his kinfolk. Of these, Kaloján was main eager to hear more about his beautiful younger sister, Bohumila.
‘Alas, poor Mila! My sister is intended for a Frankish boy who was, when last I saw him, a mere babe in linen wrappings. But Bohumila has no desire to leave Moravia, and still less to live among the devotees of the Pope in schism and the Latin Mass.’
‘So that is the way of things!’
‘Sad to say, it is,’ sighed Daniel. ‘Not that I too wouldn’t like to see Mila well-wed, but she has told me she will flee to a nunnery rather than bow to the Pope in Rome at a husband’s behest. And though in this her will is set against our brother’s wishes, still I am loath to blame her for it.’
Whereupon Kaloján set his face more firmly to his purpose: to free Bohumila from this shackle.
In secret, the
Kráľ began to sneak out of Praha and make his way to Míšeň under cover of night. In guise as a servant, or climbing up the wall when all others were asleep, he would leave letters at her door or at her window. In these letters he unclasped his veneration of her, his knowledge of her plight, and his desire to aid her in any way she deemed fit. He signed these letters
Jágerský.
For seven days Kaloján had no reply from her, though he knew that she took the letters and read them. At length, however, there appeared upon the sill of her window a missive in a woman’s hand, which was addressed—
‘
Pre Jágerského: It startles and frightens me, that you know as much of me and my family matters as you do, and further that I know not what drove you to woo me like this. Are you indeed the man you claim to be? Because you come both to my door and to my window I must assume you are welcome here in Míšeň. Wherefore: come to me in the open, that I may see you and know who you are! And do so, if your heart is true, by this means. Tomorrow in Míšeň my kinsman Wizlaw will host a dinner, and I shall propose that we hear some book: let your voice first be heard. This way I shall know your intentions.’
And the epistle was signed simply: ‘Bohumila’.
Kaloján then went openly into the feasting-hall at Míšeň and was welcomed at once by Wizlaw, who was surprised and delighted to see the king of Moravia among his guests. Wizlaw once again gave Kaloján the seat of honour, and once again wine was poured, and food was served, and music and dancing were had. But as the night’s repast wore on, Bohumila stood from her seat and asked:
‘Uncle, might we hear some book now, that we might benefit from some useful knowledge? For I know the clerk is in the hall tonight.’
Kaloján marked that her eyes were searching the room, among all the men there assembled. The beardless youth stood up boldly and proclaimed:
‘That is an excellent idea, Wizlaw. Have the clerk bring forth Holy Writ, and let him read from the First Epistle of John—the third chapter.’
And so the clerk read from the Scriptures: ‘
My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth. And hereby we know that we are of the truth, and shall assure our hearts before him. For if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things. Beloved, if our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence toward God. And whatsoever we ask, we receive of him, because we keep his commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in his sight. And this is his commandment, That we should believe on the name of his Son Jesus Christ, and love one another, as he gave us commandment. And he that keepeth his commandments dwelleth in him, and he in him. And hereby we know that he abideth in us, by the Spirit which he hath given us.’
It was clear that whomever Bohumila had expected—it had
not been the young king! But now it was Bohumila’s turn to feel her gaze fixed upon the red-headed youngster who had been given the crown, and to be stirred within her heart in love for him. Bohumila had grown nearly resigned to the idea of being married off outside the Moravian realm and into the schismatic realm of the Franks. But
now—not only had the king of that realm himself offered her the chance to escape, but had also proclaimed his love to her! As the clerk read to the guests in Míšeň the words of the Holy Apostle and Evangelist John, this namesake of his held her gaze the whole time.
Though the roof and the walls were Wizlaw’s, still there were within and beneath them a young man in love, and a young woman in love. Although not bound by gift or dowry, Kaloján and Bohumila swore again and again their belonging one to the other, with ties no less binding or holy. Between them they vowed that Kaloján would have none but Bohumila, and Bohumila, none but Kaloján.
The two lovers began to speak of escape. And although Kaloján bore no ill will toward his host in Míšeň—still the ties of love and honour which now bound him were too dear for him to do anything else. He began to make plans to spirit her away from Míšeň.
But for a youth and a maid to make their escape together—they needed a swift horse. And Kaloján’s spirited roan, the one which had borne him from Velehrad to Doudleby in two days, had sadly taken a deadly blow at the battle of Bezďez. He had long not known where or how to replace him. My children, how dispirited the king must have felt—how helpless, despite the crown upon his head!—as he made his way back to Praha from Míšeň,
without his love at his side!
God seemed to be upon the side of the
Kráľ once again, however. There had been a stock fair in Praha that winter, and Bohuslav of Nitra—the king’s
šafár—had made a purchase of several hundred beasts for the royal stables. Unfortunately, as the king approached, the grooms were having trouble with a particular one.
The proud, mettlesome sorrel steed of fifteen hands, its veins surging with wild and hot Armenian blood, struggled and fought with and trampled every groom which drew near it. It was not as tall or heavy as some that Kaloján had seen, but it was at least three times as fierce! The sorrel had already bloodied seven of the king’s best grooms, who stood holding and nursing their trodden heads and limbs as far away from the animal as possible. Kaloján also noted the intellect of the beast. Whenever the grooms drew too close to catching and wrangling him, the sorrel bounded off zigzag like a coney.
‘I have heard tales of horses like this,’ Kaloján remarked. ‘There is a lineage of coursers from Asia Minor which is capable of taking towns at a stride, and moats at a leap!’
‘But this one’s no better than a bloody rabbit
[2]!’ swore one of the wounded grooms.
‘Let me have a try,’ said the king.
Gingerly, tenderly, the young king drew near the animal. Back flicked the sorrel’s ears. Down bent the sorrel’s head. The king froze. My children—what would you do? An angry horse of war stared down the king as he placed one foot beside the other and angled himself toward it! The king did not use crop or net. One hand bore a lead, and the other a small sack of barley. Hours crept by as the sun coursed the heavens, and the king drew nearer the beast step by gentle step.
Twice the beast charged him and the king barely escaped being trampled and bloodied himself. But with patience and gentleness Kaloján’s hand found the sorrel’s mane, and the sorrel did not rear or kick. Soon enough the king had managed to bridle and saddle the beast, and was riding the fifteen-hand steed, which went about with him as tame as you please.
‘And what shall we name you?’ asked Kaloján. ‘“Handsome”?’
The sorrel gave an angry shake of its head.
‘“Highland Runner”?’
A derisive snort.
‘What, then? Iwis, you don’t want to be called “Bloody Rabbit”?’
My children—to the king’s total surprise, the perverse sorrel tilted his head and blew a contented breath! Evidently it had enjoyed wreaking the havoc it had among the grooms. And so thereafter the swift-footed sorrel Armenian steed of the
Kráľ was known as
Krvavý Kralík!
Kaloján now had Krvavý Kralík—and he needed a way in and out. He went twice again in secret to Míšeň, to plot with Bohumila the area around Míšeň and a course for their sortie for the best chances of flight without notice, the swiftest to and out of the Sorbian town, the best to bear Bohumila back across the Ores and safe into Bohemia. Kaloján as well took the chance to exchange further tokens and assurances of love with his beloved.
As the day drew near, fear and doubt began to grip the heart of Bohumila. Alone in her room and without the comfort of Kaloján near her, she fretted. In each shadow, in each glance amiss, in each phrase or sentence that her host
Vojvoda Wizlaw uttered to her, she found further reasons for dread—dread that her beloved had been discovered. At last she could contain herself no longer, and she placed the tip of her quill upon a sheet of vellum and upon it poured forth all her trepidations, seeing it borne off to her beloved.
The letter very nearly fouled the whole plan. Were it not for some deft thinking upon the part of their chosen courier, a Sorb who had been Bohumila’s wet-nurse at one time, the letter might well have been found by men loyal to her eldest brother, and the whole plot would have fallen through.
‘It is merely a letter for my poor mother, who lives in the Ores,’ Bohumila’s sworn woman had said. After that, she had been left alone to deliver it. Kaloján was not happy to receive it, however. He forbore from making any answer, but he prayed to Christ and to the Panagia that his love would recover the strength of heart to send him no further letters until the appointed day came.
Krvavý Kralík bore Kaloján across the Ores and across the Sorbian lands toward Míšeň, and there he awaited his love at the chosen place, a lonely glade along which lay a stream. By moonlight—here it was his turn to feel the fear grip his heart—he saw first the figure of one man, in mail, with a blade at his side. Had they been found out? Was this a man sent by her brother to thwart them?
No! There was Bohumila herself under the moon! She ran into the waiting arms of the king, who kissed her and fathomed her, and led her by the hand to the side of his horse, and took her thereby to the nearest wooden Sorbian kirk where they swore their true vows to each other before God, and then escaped into the glade by night to seal their love in the time-honoured way. What man, what woman, does not know the custom?
In such way was Queen Bohumila of the Moravian Lands rapt away from her brother and the machinations of the Franks, by the love of her husband, King Kaloján.
[1] In actuality, Bohumila Rychnovská-Nisa and her brother Daniel were half-Moravian and half-English, with a generous Welsh admixture on the distaff side (Bohumila was clearly the one who named her children). Her mother, Mildþrýþ Byrhtnoþsdohtor, was a Wessex-bred noblewoman descended from a long line of the kings of Hwicce.
[2] In Slovak:
krvavý kralík. Any putative linkage between the name of this Armenian sorrel and that of Chìtù-Má, the horse of Lü Bu during the Three Kingdoms Era in China, may be seen as purely coincidental.