Book Six Chapter Five
FIVE
In the Blood
12 January 1285 – 16 November 1287
In the Blood
12 January 1285 – 16 November 1287
Anterio was fuming. That nice little Russian girl he’d been flirting with—the sweet-cheeked auburn-braided bit of skirt who had been giggling and smiling at him and suggestively telling him how well he must ride with a steed like that—had suddenly disappeared on him, and now was nowhere to be found. He had met with her once in the courtyard for a little tête-à-tête when all the king’s retinue had met for the coming campaign against Verona. But as soon as the king’s retinue went inside, it seemed she’d cooled off toward him and moved off for other men, the little minx.
‘Who was that girl?’ he asked of Despot Lucio. ‘The one I was talking to?’
‘I believe,’ Lucio told his vassal with a tap on the side of his nose, ‘that she’s the Moravian king’s ward. She’ll be of age soon—I think she’s sixteen this month. King’s eldest won’t be far behind her, either.’
‘Is the king looking to make a settlement on her? The ward, I mean?’
‘Nay,’ Lucio answered him bluntly. ‘Don’t go sniffing around there for marriage prospects. She’s got no titles coming to her—no one knows who her father is, and evidently even her mother doesn’t acknowledge her. She’s got only the one blood relation, her older sister Praskovia, and the one sister is as much in the dark about her bastard parentage as the other.’
‘Some courtier’s brat from a bit on the side?’
‘Most likely,’ said Lucio. ‘She may have no better prospects, and that may be why she’s playing the wanton with you. Or… there might be other reasons, none of which concern you now. Keep your pointer in your pants up here, Anterio, and your eyes on the worthier prize. There’ll be plenty of better catches where we’re going. And plenty more when we’re successful.’
Not having been deterred by his devastating loss against the Holy Father in Rome, Despot Lucio was still eager to expand his holdings to what he considered rightfully his, and claim all the lands between Aquileia and Trento for his own, all the way down to the Polesine. These were all held, at present, by the Duce Ardizzione of Verona. Once again, Radomír 3. had graciously agreed to help him in his campaign.
~~~
‘What was all that about?’ Bohodar growled.
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Pribislava told him loftily.
‘All that in the courtyard… with the Italian baron! You know the one! The one you were making eyes at! What do you see in a man like that?’
‘Plenty!’ Pribislava cried out in exasperation. ‘He’s handsome, he’s tall, he holds himself well! And he’s a gallant with a sword—he doesn’t hide his nose in books all the time! And he knows how to actually talk to a girl! You can’t even get two words out around Katarina!’
‘Well—but—I mean—’
‘There, you see?’ Pribislava let out a noise of derision. ‘You’re pathetic, Bohodar! Always gawking and mooning around after her like a dope! And you’re never going to talk to her!’
‘Oh?’ Bohodar’s blood was up. ‘And how far did you get with that Italian bloke?’
‘I’d have had him kissing me in minutes,’ Pribislava shot at him. ‘Just watch! I’ll go right now, find him—’
Bohodar shot out a hand and gripped Pribislava by the wrist. She turned around with a yelp and glared at the infuriating boy.
‘Ouch! Bohodar—let go! That hur—‘
Bohodar cut her off with a single eloquent gesture. Pribislava forgot all about the pain in her wrist—and Bohodar was relaxing his grip anyway. More importantly, all the jealous hurt melted away at his soothing and reassuring touch. Pribislava grabbed his elbows and dragged him closer, pressing her lips harder against his. At once, as though by an unspoken agreement, they opened their mouths to each other and met with their tongues.
The two of them now embarked upon a journey of exploration together that was not merely in their minds and in their thoughts. The shared fascination between the two old playmates now was upon the uncharted territories of male and female, the taste of breath, the warm touch of skin, of the scent and texture of hair, of the racing of heartbeats, of the thrill of nerves.
When Pribislava and Bohodar broke apart, they looked deep in each other’s eyes. Pribislava was the first to open her lips with the worried question—the one lingering doubt—
‘What about Katarina?’
‘What about her?’ came the answer. ‘But what about that baron?’
‘Who?’
And with it now resolved that no one could come between them, the auburn-haired girl and the black-haired boy went straight back to meeting and caressing each other’s lips, tongues, palms and fingers: each new mark upon their map more tender, more secret, sweeter and more enticing than the one before.
~~~
When the Moravians entered the war for Verona, the Orthodox Aquileians had already captured Friuli, while the men of Verona had taken up their positions blockading Trento from all contact without. The armies of Radomír 3., together with the Despot and the few of his men he’d brought with him to Olomouc, marched southward once more through the Eastern Bavarian stretches of the Alps and moved to intercept the Verona men at Vicenza. The Moravians this time took no chances with the terrain, and engaged only when they had the clear advantage of numbers.
The battle of Vicenza was brief, but spectacularly bloody. The Aquileians fought with remarkable vigour and a spirit of vengeance that gave the Moravians pause. The charge was led by Anterio—the same who had been in the Olomouc courtyard flirting with Pribislava—and he took the head from the shoulders of one of the knights of Verona, who was called Bertoldo. The battle was won, and the Moravians moved off in their positions and began encamping themselves at Treviso.
The two armies fought another rearguard engagement at Aquileia, which was led largely by the ordinary troops and townsmen of the northward Italian cities. Moravia arrived to support, but by that time Despot Lucio had all but declared victory upon the field of battle for himself. All that was left for them to do at that point was to drive the foe from the field.
Moravia still kept the troops in the field, and Radomír 3. felt it incumbent upon him to supervise the armies personally. He oversaw the sieges of Treviso, and also of Padua and Garda. The Venetians themselves, who were not under the rule of Verona, looked out nervously from the battlements as the Moravian army and the Italian raged against the mainland territories within view. The war was over within two years.
During the war, the Kráľ of Moravia had, upon receiving missives from both Olomouc and the suitor in question, given his eldest daughter’s hand in marriage to the lord of Lykia in Asia Minor—a man named Staurakios.
And then Staurakios had evidently waxed quite eloquent upon the marriage he had made, and made a speech to his whole retinue and garrison when Vjačeslava arrived in Lykia.
‘The Moravian royals are famed throughout the world,’ he had declaimed upon receiving Vjačeslava within his court, ‘not only for the delicacy of their features, but also for the strength and soundness of their forms and the perspicacity of their minds and their accumulation of wisdom. They are famed throughout the world for the natural virtues which are native to their line—and which wax ever more potent with the passing of generations, like fine wine! And behold, I have taken to wife a woman of remarkable intelligence, who can aid me in both peace and war!’
And as the New Year dawned upon the Year of the World 6796, Radomír 3. returned home in triumph from Verona, with his brother-in-law Despot Lucio having taken for himself everything he had set out to take. He did not know, however, the tragedy that had already befallen his whole house, and indeed his whole dynasty—the same which Staurakios had so eloquently praised upon the occasion of his marriage.
For, in the absence of the Kráľ, his eldest son and heir had likewise conquered and been conquered in turn. The now-eighteen Pribislava, and the now-fifteen Bohodar, had held off as long as they could from taking the final plunge together. They would not yield up the last secrets of their bodies to each other absent the formal blessing of a priest. But the newness and the rawness of the sensations that enthralled them both had overpowered them.
Bohodar had been the one to take both of Pribislava’s hands one fateful night, and lead her to the chapel and to the hapless priest. Together they had promised before God to have each other and no other, lifelong. Hand-in-hand they went to his room, bolted the door, drew the curtains, lit the candle. They undressed each other, lay down together on the bed. And together they joined bodies, and took the plunge deep into the mysteries of husband and wife, every bit as naturally and sweetly as they had joined lips and hands, and with every bit as much affection.
Pribislava and Bohodar had taken every care not to commit sin by the lights of the Church. But they did not know the deeper sin which now doomed them. They did not know the blood relation they shared. They did not know the hushed secrets and hypocrisies of their elders. They did not know the sin in the blood that they were now sealing with their conjoined bodies.
The two of them handed Radomír 3. a fait accompli on Bohodar’s sixteenth birthday. Pribislava and Bohodar had already been honourably married for the better part of a year prior. And at the time, the Kráľ not only had no reason to object, he had even secretly hoped for such a marriage. And why not? The two of them had grown up together. They were well suited to each other. They had similar tempers and values. All the signs had boded well!
But then the hammer-stroke fell.
If she had been honest, Queen Mother Vjačeslava Vasilevna would have been the one to speak up, long before now. But she was not the one to speak. The deadly stroke came from Count Oldřich of Hradec.
‘Milord Kráľ,’ Oldřich had come to the castle and entered the King’s audience chamber alone, ‘I hear that some congratulations may be in order, on the marriage of your eldest son.’
‘Indeed,’ Radomír said complacently, even happily. ‘I had little enough to do with it myself, but I am happy for the event all the same.’
‘You shouldn’t be,’ Oldřich told him. ‘I shall not congratulate you. I have news which I fear will come most unwelcome, but which you ought to hear in any case—for the whole of the honour and good name of your line does depend upon it.’
‘Well?’ asked Radomír. ‘After a declaration like that, you oughtn’t keep me waiting!’
‘I fear I must ask in advance for a small consideration for this intelligence, O Kráľ.’
Radomír had little choice. He opened his coffers to the Hrabě bearing this ill news. And then Oldřich spun out a tale of infamy that Radomír might well have had his head for—if he had not the witness and documents all in order to attest the truth of what he claimed.
‘The Queen Mother—your mother, sire—left Olomouc in the last days we knew of Kráľ Kaloján alive. She told you that she was leaving on account of ill health, and returning home to Bukovina. This was not true. She left, in fact, for Maramoroš, and she brought with her a midwife to attend her.’
‘A midwife—?’
‘A midwife, in fact, from Hradec… as I was able to ascertain. I can produce her here at need, but I have a statement from her affirming the truth of all she witnessed and performed. Your mother, môj Kráľ, was indeed pregnant when you took the throne. And indeed, she had been pregnant two years before, and contracted with the midwife I know of for the same services at that time too.’
Radomír knew that his mother had absented herself for health reasons then as well. His heart rose into his throat in dread, but he knew he must press on. ‘Go on, Oldřich.’
‘She gave birth. Twice. The first time, was to a little girl who was named Praskovia, for she was born on a Friday. The midwife attests that this girl was dark-avised, and that she stayed in Maramoroš while milady the Queen Mother returned to Olomouc. Then again the Queen Mother fell pregnant. Again she returned to Maramoroš. Again she gave birth. To Praskovia was added a sister—Pribislava.’
Radomír’s blood ran like ice in his veins. ‘And who was the father?’
‘The father of both children… was your uncle. Her own brother-in-law, Vratislav Rychnovský. He who is, or should be, sworn to the service of the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre.’
The whole weight of the scandal fell upon the king’s shoulders at once, and crushed him. Although Oldřich had protested proof, he needed none. Truth rang out from the whole story. This whole time, his mother had been basely, filthily betraying the very memory of his father! She had been taking his father’s younger brother to her bed! She had not only debased her widowhood, she had also corrupted his monastic oath to do it! And it had been she who had borne both Praskovia and Pribislava of Ňamec! How could he have not seen it before—? Two Bukovin girls, born of a Bukovin mother—his own mother! Pribislava was both Radomír’s blood-sister and first cousin!
And now… even now, Bohodar, his own firstborn son and sole heir, was in marital congress with a woman doubly consanguineous: both his aunt and his first cousin once removed. Those two poor innocents were tangling the royal branch of the Rychnovský family tree into a desperate knot! Every night the two of them, happy and blissful in their ignorance, were sinning in the blood!
Worse: Bohodar and Pribislava enjoyed no sanction from the Church. True, avunculate marriages might in rare circumstances be forgiven, or even blessed—howbeit reluctantly. Heraclius’s and Martina’s had been, after all. So had Bohodar 1.’s and Blažena’s. But how could the Church bless such a union, when the Church had been deceived every bit as much as he was until now? If this ever came out, how could anything absolve those two poor children?
How was he to tell them? And what in heaven’s name was he supposed to do about it?
‘Milord?’
Oldřich still had his hands held out.
Radomír gave the detestable man his filthy money and sent him away, to be alone in his misery and grief.
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