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

[Revan86]

FOURTEEN
Čističe
22 April 1317 – 11 April 1319​

‘You still won’t recant. You still won’t join us.’

‘Never,’ Dorotea spoke.

Every form of bodily torture—whips, pincers, hot brands, stretching, suffocation, weighting—had been inflicted upon Dorotea’s body. The Adamites had broken her good foot. And they had gouged out her left eye.

But what her tormentors had failed to understand about Dorotea, was that she had long been inured to such pain. Having been born with a club foot made pain a constant companion to her. And she had long enough turned to Christ and to His holy Mother in prayer for some respite from that tiresome acquaintance’s company, that turning to them now in her present distress was wholly natural.

‘You will fail,’ Dorotea told her torturer. ‘Nothing you do to my body will destroy the love for God in me.’

‘Me, maybe,’ the torturer leered at her. ‘But as for my lord… well. Let’s just say he’s just getting started with you. Bring her here.’

Dorotea was hauled before the torturer, who then took a pair of shears and cut away even the blood-soaked rags that she was wearing, baring all of her aching, tormented flesh to the air. She was then flung roughly back to her cot. The torturer turned in the doorway and made to leave it.

‘She’s all yours, milord.’

Dorotea felt a wave of revulsion take her as she beheld Comte Bérenger de Vasconia-Boulogne enter her cell. He was wearing not one article more clothing than she was, and there was a predatory gleam in his eyes. Dorotea couldn’t help but shudder as she knew what was coming: what Bérenger was going to do to her.

Tears welled to her eyes as she understood that this vile beast who called himself a nobleman would never release her back to Torgil and to her rightful family, not in this life. But she called upon Jesus Christ to protect and preserve her spirit, and severed herself from this degradation just as she had severed herself from the pain of each of the other torments visited upon her body.

~~~​

‘How long must we wait, dobrá osoba?’ asked the young man.

‘Patience, veriaci,’ the dobrá osoba said. Her voice was cool, pleasant and level. ‘The worthy and the beloved of God must always endure in patience. But the time of waiting is nearing its end at last.’

‘The priests still have their hooks firmly in the backs of the people,’ said the veriaci.

‘Not for long.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘The church which calls itself “Orthodox” bears within itself the seeds of its own destruction. Like all earthbound orders beholden to the Wicked One and to the powers of this world, it is doomed to fall,’ said the dobrá osoba. ‘Do you doubt it? The signs are there to be seen. Kings, bishops, priests, all of them enthralled to the wiles of flesh, to the snares of coin… only those of us who are purified, who are enlightened according to the spirit and who can escape the snares of this evil world, will be able to withstand the coming fire of God’s righteous wrath.’

The veriaci trembled slightly.

‘Do not fear for yourself, young one,’ said the dobrá osoba. ‘Though you have not wholly delivered yourself from your earthly attachments… although you are not yet ready to attain the true purity of consolation… still you believe. This is enough, for now.’

‘But… the coming fire…’

‘It is not yet. But soon,’ said the dobrá osoba. ‘It shall come out of the south, from the altar which had once been called “good”. Yes… from Ráb the first spark shall ignite. Only wait, and watch. All of us await, and we are watchful.’

The veriaci nodded.

‘And will those who merely believe be spared?’

‘If they are found worthy,’ the dobrá osoba told him, ‘they will.’

~~~

Elsewhere in Moravia, Dorotea’s family—unaware for the present of her recent torture—was celebrating the birth of Agrafena Rychnovská’s firstborn. Agrafena had been married (morganatically) within the past year to a yellow-bearded, well-spoken knight of the Rychnovský household, Vyšebor Hlinka—a descendant, though this was a fact known only to the most skilled of noble genealogists, of Boleslav and Jaroslav of Hlinka, a family of Moravian-Silesian extraction which had established itself as a minor but distinctly honourable house in that region. From this union Agrafena had given birth to a son, Ruslav Rychnovský. Sadly, Ruslav seemed to have inherited his mother’s abnormal spinal curvature, but other than that he was well and healthy, and the apple of his mother’s eye.

‘Milovaný môj!’ cried Pribislava in exasperation.

‘Mm?’

‘You are needed now,’ demanded his wife. ‘Not later. Look, you have a new grandson awaiting you—and you’re still up here with your translation of Hippocrates? Can’t you give it a rest for half an hour to come and say hello?’

‘But, Bivka,’ Bohodar objected, ‘I’m on a roll with Slavonic glosses for all these dietary terms! They’ve been plaguing me for weeks and I’m finally making progress!’

‘Nonsense,’ Pribislava chuffed. ‘Even Vasilii is down there visiting with his new nephew, despite his being ill. You know how his lungs bother him, the poor lad. And if he can be there, you can be there!’

Pribislava grabbed her husband behind the collar, giving a heavy tug. Bohodar had little choice but to stand. He moved to the door—but not before Pribislava favoured him with a gentle smile and a tender kiss on the cheek for his cooperation.

Bohodar entered the chamber where his daughter was recovering from the birth, gave her greetings and well-wishes in God, and looked to see her new-born child. The Rychnovský line continued to be blessed, it seemed, even in the female line: little Ruslav was favoured with his father’s fair colouring, and with a remarkably pretty face. Surprisingly to Bohodar, Ruslav was very slow to cry, and did not make any strong objection to being handled by this hairy stranger who was not his mother. Bohodar fancied that he could see in little Ruslav—infant yet though he was—a temper that was mild and forgiving. He had had a similar impression when his second son Vasilii had been born… a sense that an entire world of possibilities lay open to him.

‘He’s beautiful, Gruša,’ Bohodar congratulated his daughter. Agrafena beamed up at him gratefully.

The grandfather was still lost in admiring his new grandson when the Knieža of Bohemia entered the room and strode up to his side, speaking sotto voce.

‘Milord,’ he said, ‘I have received intelligence that someone within the kingdom is plotting the untimely demise of Agrafena. I have taken the liberty of placing extra members of the garrison around this room for her safety.’

‘You have no idea who is behind this plot?’

‘As yet, no,’ the knieža murmured. ‘But I’m doing everything possible to find out. Also… I am hearing some rumours of religious disturbances in Nitra. It may be worth your time to send Archbishop Radislav to Nitra to investigate and reassure the faithful.’

‘See it done.’

~~~​

Radislav had no sooner gotten to Nitra than he began sending back alarming reports about the degree of distrust and suspicion of the clergy in the region. Even the white clergy, the married priests who were closest to the people, were thought of in Nitra as being on the take. Radislav set to work assuaging the complaints of the Nitrans regarding the clergy, and investigating possible corruption within the Church… but he warned nonetheless that the entire principality was a powder-keg threatening to erupt in religious strife and potential schism.

Worse news came from the northwest, as Vojtech returned from British shores. The Jarl of Jorvig had lost his bid for the rest of the territories traditionally belonging to Jorvig, and in addition had had to pay an indemnity to the West Saxon king for the war. His sons had been released to him, but his wife had not. The Jarl’s heart had been broken—as was her brother’s, as soon to be her father’s and mother’s—to hear that she had been not only tortured but also defiled by the Comte of Guines, Kent and Utrecht, and made to serve in blasphemy of her former marriage as his concubine. Prayers for the deliverance of Dorotea Rychnovská were added to the prayers of the people, at every Orthodox Church in Moravia.

Then another deadly stroke fell.

Prince Kornél of Győr (which in Moravian was called Ráb) declared himself for the doctrines of the Čističe—a branch of Gnostic doctrines whose adherents called themselves merely dobrí ľudia or ‘the good people’. Declaring the Orthodox Church to be a wholly corrupt and ‘earth-bound’ institution, Kornél had forsworn flesh meats and all warlike arts, received the ‘consolation’ from one of their women-preachers, and was admitted to the ranks of the dobrí ľudia. From that point on, the Čističe began showing themselves openly and venturing out into the field for new converts.

Despite the efforts of Archbishop Radislav, Nitra was more than ripe for the conquest. Čistička preacheresses began attracting great throngs of new believers in Bratislava and in Trenčín. They had little to do to convince the populace of the corruption of the official church. One of the major points of Čistička discourse was, naturally, the consanguineous marriage of the king and queen of the realm, and the unseemly connivance of the Orthodox authorities in blessing that union.

Orthodox churches went up in flames across Nitra. Even in Nový Sadec, the new Gnostic doctrines spread like sparks in kindling. A wide swathe of Moravia no longer held to the true Faith; and even Knieža Bystrík 2. was inclining his ear to these teachings.

 

[Revan86]

FIFTEEN
Mutiny, Martyrdom, Mayhem and Marital Infidelity
25 May 1319 – 1 April 1320​

Maer clutched the water-skin and victuals underneath her gown as she entered the castle grounds in Canterbury. The slender, dark-haired Briton kept a wary eye upon the guards as she darted into the shadows and approached the corner of the fonsels with her offering, and stooped down as she passed by a certain vent which led down into the cell, where she knew Dorotea Rychnovská lay. Dorotea had just given birth to the Comte’s son, who was named Yves—but despite the boy being beside his father in all things, his mother still lay broken and degraded in this dungeon. Maer lowered the water-skin and the various fruits and meats through the vent.

‘Friend—are you there?’ came a hoarse voice from below.

‘I am here,’ answered Maer.

‘I fear I’m not much longer for this world,’ Dorotea called up to her friend, ‘although I doubt my captors intend to strike the fatal blow themselves. My body is broken and spent.’

‘But you haven’t forsworn Christ and His Church?’ asked Maer worriedly. She had heard tales of captives beginning to sympathise with their captors, and she prayed that the same had not happened to Dorotea.

‘Never. Not once,’ Dorotea answered her. ‘Tell Jarl Torgil, also—whatever they’ve done to my body, my heart still belongs to him alone.’

‘I’ll tell him so,’ Maer assured her. ‘All of Moravia is praying for you. Be strong.’

‘Thank you, friend,’ Dorotea murmured back to her. ‘May God grant me strength!’

~~~

In Moravia, Agrafena had given birth to another daughter for Vyšebor Hlinka—named Pravdomila Rychnovská. Pravdomila was of a darker colouration than Ruslav, and it soon became clear as well that she had a much more assertive personality. The royal coffers were once again refilling, as well, due mostly to the ransom of two West Saxon nobles out of confinement in Olomouc.

And not a moment too soon.

The religious turmoil that was roiling the middle swathe of Veľká Morava from Bratislava all the way across to the High Tatras had erupted into open conflict. A large number of Orthodox Christian refugees from Nitra who had been expelled from their parishes—white clergy, black clergy, even ordinary laypeople—began filtering northward into Moravia Proper and eastward into Spiš and Užhorod. The parish properties that had belonged to the Church had been seized, and many of them were being sold off, ostensibly to benefit the poor. But it was noted that Knieža Bystrík 2. and the Mikulčických generally benefitted in no small measure from the Čističe and their expungement of the clergy.

Of course, the Kráľ and Pribislava stepped in to attempt to counteract this trend, and made explicit shows of support for the Church of Moravia wherever possible, but it wasn’t easy… and it wasn’t even clear whether Bohodar’s patronage was doing any good. The moral authority of the Crown had been exhausted. Many ordinary people of Veľká Morava had resented being sent to England to fight in a war that was none of their choosing—and which had ended in an ignominious defeat despite their technical and numerical superiority.

And even among the Rychnovských, there was the matter of the Rychnovský clan of Nisa finding that the royal branch was vanishingly worthy of their support. The new vojvoda of Sliezsko, Krasomil Rychnovský-Nisa, was torn between his ardent support for the official Church, and the clear material gains that the Mikulčických were making in Nitra from expelling their priests. Ultimately, it seemed, he could tell which way the political winds were blowing—and threw in his lot with the Čističe-supporting Knieža Bystrík 2. Matters had already come to a head, practically before Bohodar had known it.

The formal demand and cause for war, when Bystrík declared himself against the King, was little more than the usual demand for the restoration of ancient noble rights and liberties which had been the perennial cause since the times of Kráľ Tomáš. But the subtext was clear to all who heard these demands in Olomouc. Bystrík was declaring for the new creed which had sprung up on his territory, and declaring war not only against the King but also against the Church! And he had the support of the Silesians as well—though the Silesians remained generally Orthodox, the material gains that their Vojvoda saw from supporting Bystrík were too great to ignore.

The frightening news spread first among the refugees. The armies of the Čističe numbered twenty, twenty-five, thirty thousand… well in excess of what the rest of Veľká Morava could field.

Bohodar made a desperate political manœuvre in response. He sent to the Sorbs of Drážďany—for his youngest daughter, the giantess Vratislava, to marry the son of their lord, Kliment z Nitrava. The Sorbian vojvoda sent some three thousand of his men across the Ores into Moravia… far too few to be effective against such a great number of rebels. And then the blow came which broke the Kráľ’s spirit utterly.

Word arrived from Jorvig that his beloved eldest daughter, the one upon whom he had lavished so much pity in her learning to walk, the sweet and loving and blameless Dorotea—had died. She had died friendless and alone, in the filth and degradation of Utrecht’s dungeons. The Frisians had taken an eye from her, they had taken a foot from her, they had destroyed her body with tortures, and the Frisian comte had befouled her dignity as a wife with his filthy advances—and now they had taken her life.

The only thing they hadn’t been able to take from her, so her friend Maer had told him, was her faith. She had never assented to the Gnostic beliefs. She had died with the name of Christ upon her lips—a loyal daughter of the Orthodox Church.

And if that were not enough of a blow to the king—one more was due. On the eve on which they were to depart for the front against the rebels, the king’s daughter-in-law, Vojtech’s wife Alexandrinē, had been taken in flagrante delicto with a visiting Swedish nobleman, Håkon of Stolp. She was in the final week of her second pregnancy. She had evidently been assisted in this assignation by her maid-servants. Bohodar vowed that he would deal with Alexandrinē once they returned from battle.

~~~​

The battle occurred on the banks of the Dyje River, very close to the border with the Rakúsy. Kráľ Bohodar took command of the battle personally, with his personal vane flying very close to the front. The Church’s honour, not only his own, was on the line against the Čističe. He had done on his mail and put on a brave front for his men, but in his heart of hearts he knew this battle would be a long shot.

He was accompanied by his levies, but his only specialised contingent were a detachment of men from the Opolanie who were armed with halberds and glaives. Their foes, from Nitra and Sliezsko, knew the Morava Valley every bit as well as he did—and they had with them many zbrojnoši as well as archers and crossbowmen. He could hear from across the field that the women-preachers of the Čističe were giving their blessings to the men going forth. The Orthodox on the King’s side were praying over the kneeling soldiers… who were presently outnumbered two-to-one.

Bohodar rode forth with the first sally, with only one družinnik on each side. He made a flying charge at the enemy’s right flank, and waded forward with his sword among the zbrojnoši. And then he saw the vanes of the Frisians among the enemy lines. Rage and grief took hold of him. The Frisians had robbed Dorotea from him—and now was his chance to return the favour.

He flew down the right flank of the enemy line toward the Frisians. He saw among the devices that of one of the Frisian princes, Walter Rodulfszoon. Bohodar fought with great spiritedness against the Frisians, but in his blind rage he did not turn and retreat with the other riders. His mount was caught among the Frisian spear-hafts and he was fetched down heavily to the earth. A blade connected with his right leg, and he roared with pain as the malm bit deep into his flesh.

Pain, red-hot and searing, was the only thing that was left to the Kráľ before he lost consciousness.

~~~​

In the days and weeks to come, the družinniki who recovered the Kráľ’s body from the field would tell and retell a story that, had both of them not witnessed it—and had not countless others witnessed the same thing upon both sides—would have been cast as the wildest and most incredible fiction imaginable.

At first they imagined they saw a strange plume of dust amid the chaos of the battle as it arose from the ground. But then it took upon itself the bright hues of pearlescent white and shimmering red-gold. The plume of dust then took the shape of a young girl—tall, erect, striding with purpose toward the body of the fallen king. The pearly white was her raiment, seeming as it were to be woven out of pure light; the red-gold was her hair. And then the družinniki started and nearly fell from their horses at the sight, because the visage they saw was that of the king’s eldest daughter!

But it wasn’t her—! It couldn’t be her! Never before had they seen Dorotea Rychnovská walk so upright, so straight, with such vigour and strength! Always when they had seen her, it had been a girl whose every movement upon her feet had been shot through with wrenching pain. But there was no trace of pain or anguish in this girl’s face—and they noticed it was whole. The tales they had heard were that the Frisians had put out her eye, but both of her eyes were set full and seeing in her shining face. She walked directly to the king, and there was a shield in her left hand. The two družinniki then dismounted of their own accord, and knelt in holy fear and awe.

The Frisians, too, halted in their advance, and trembled in fear before the visage of the woman who had met her earthly end in Bérenger de Vasconia-Boulogne’s dungeons. But there was no wrath in her. She moved forward in determination, but without any sort of earthly passion whatever—she held her shield in front of her, and knelt down at the side of her father. One Frisian assayed with his spear to touch her, but no sooner had his weapon touched her shield than it melted like water out of his grasp and into the dust of the earth.

Dorotea Rychnovská touched the face of her father, and murmured to him. But everyone within sight of her could hear her voice, as though she was speaking in their own ears.

‘Bohodar, whom I love and whom once I called “father”… in the name of the True Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit also… here yet bide awhile longer. Your time is not yet.’

Then Dorotea rose, and lifted her father’s body in her arms, and handed him to the two dumbfounded družinniki. She then told them:

‘Do not be afraid. Be at peace. Take him back to the tents, and give him into the care of the young woman whose name in baptism is Chrysē.’

Then she turned to the Frisians and told them:

‘I do not come in vengeance; that part is not mine. You see I bear no weapon. Christ has not yet turned His back upon you. Turn to Him, while you have time.’

As suddenly as she had come, she vanished in air.

All of this the enemies on both sides saw and heard, unbelievable as it was. The battle was still – neither movement nor voice could be seen or heard for nigh an hour after.

~~~

The družinniki returned with broken and bleeding Bohodar to their camp, and committed him into the care of a young Silesian woman named Zlata, who had been christened with the name of Chrysē. The young woman at once tended to him by taking a red-hot iron and cauterising the worst of his wounds. His right leg, however, which had been cut past the bone to the quick of the marrow, even Zlata’s arts could not save—and it would have to be amputated.

Without the king, the Moravian lines broke and scattered when the Čističe resumed their attack. Only one of the king’s Privy Council had been on the field of battle that day: Sjätopolk Koceľuk of Podkarpatská. He had been slain by the countess of Boršód. The rest of the king’s ministers, who had not been present upon the field of battle and did not believe the miracle by which the king had been returned alive to them, sued for peace on terms favourable to the heretics. Bystrík Mikulčický had won the war.

 

[Revan86]

SIXTEEN
Pneumonia, Patrimony, Persuasion and Parricide
24 June 1320 – 6 May 1321​

The investigation into the miracle that had been witnessed at the Battle of Znojmo, which had evidently saved the life of the king at the very hour of mortal peril, began apace. Archbishop Radislav conducted extensive interviews with the men who had been present upon the field of battle—the two družinniki, as well as the prisoners-of-war that had been captured by the Moravians after the king’s fall. Amazingly, their tales agreed in nearly every particular. And the fact that Chrysē-Zlata had saved the king’s life (albeit at the cost of his leg) afterward added to the mystique of this strange appearance.

Out of this investigation came the details of Dorotea Rychnovská’s capture by the Frisians, her imprisonment and torture in Kent, her resistance to the embraces of Bérenger (howbeit those embraces did result in a pregnancy and a child), and her steadfast adherence to the Faith despite all of the torments that were visited upon her, body and soul. She was not directly killed by the Adamites, and thus was not granted the status of martyr. However, the holy and Christ-like manner in which she met her tortures, bodily infirmities and death in confinement was beyond question. It was decided by the synod of the Orthodox Church of Moravia several decades later to name Dorotea Rychnovská a royal passion-bearer and a confessor.

Archbishop Radislav, in the meantime, had set to work reconverting the lands of Nitra, Užhorod and Nový Sadec from the doctrines of the Čističe back to the True Faith. Under the Archbishop, both the black and the white clergy set to work, armed with the cause of a new saint and the evident apparition of a miracle in the midst of the Moravian realm, rebuilding the belief of the people in the right glory of Christ. For several years, there were spirited public debates between the Gnostics and the Orthodox in the town squares of Bratislava, Trenčín and Sadec. The king’s troops kept themselves wisely to the side, and did not interfere in these debates.

On the other hand, both Bystrík and Krasomil wasted no time in pressing the advantages against the king that they had gained in war. The entire middle swathe of Veľká Morava between Nitra and Sliezsko was suddenly blessed with a number of special privileges and exemptions from royal duties, corvée and levy conscriptions that none of the rest of the realm enjoyed. This happened before Bohodar regained consciousness and found himself missing one of his limbs.

~~~​

Bohodar had fallen unconscious in the presence, so he had felt, of his daughter. When he awoke, it was in the presence of Dorotea’s mother. Pribislava’s rosy, high cheeks were never so welcome a sight as at that time, though it seemed the poor queen had spent much of her time in prayer at his side. Her eyes looked worn from tears and from lack of sleep. But as soon as he roused, Bivka showered him with kisses.

‘I thought I saw… our daughter,’ the king said to his wife.

‘So did many others,’ Pribislava told him, gripping his hands. ‘You were witness to a miracle of God.’

‘I… I can’t feel my right leg.’

Pribislava drew in a long, hissing breath, before she spoke quietly: ‘Môj milovaný—that’s because your leg is… no longer there.’

‘The Frisians—’

‘The war is over, love,’ Pribislava soothed him. ‘It’s all over.’

Bohodar lay back, still in intense pain. The fact that the war was over washed over him almost unknown, and only sank in with passing seconds. The tone in his wife’s voice told him that it had not ended well. Bivka was never good at hiding anything from him. The fact of his loss had not yet sunk in yet, but it would. There was, however, another matter that crawled to the surface of his consciousness and demanded to be addressed.

‘Vojtech…’ the king spoke weakly. ‘Bring Vojtech to me.’

Pribislava made a motion to one of the attendants, who went off in search of their son, while she kept holding her husband’s hand and stroking his hair, thanking God over and over again that her husband was yet alive. Soon enough, however, their eldest son appeared at his side. Bohodar called him closer, and told him what was most urgent.

‘Vojtech—I want you to divorce Alexandrinē Komnēnē.’

‘Father—?’ Vojtech’s brow furrowed. ‘Divorce? Me? Why?’

‘The Komnēnē woman… has been flagrantly unfaithful to you… a matter which concerns… not only you but the good name of the whole House.’

‘But…’ Vojtech’s brow furrowed further, ‘I have forgiven her, Father! It is in part owing to my neglect of her that she sought comfort elsewhere. Now that we are together again, I am sure that she will remain loyal to me.’

‘That isn’t… good enough an assurance for me,’ Bohodar strained himself.

‘Vojta,’ Pribislava warned her son, ‘do not argue with your father—not while he is like this.’

Bohodar was alarmed to hear Pribislava give a wracking, wet cough from deep in her lungs even as she said this. He looked to her face—her cheeks which were these days too often flush with drink, and that in excess, seemed somehow pinker and shinier than usual. Now that he came to think on it—her hands had been warmer than usual, too. Almost feverish.

‘Bivka,’ Bohodar bade her, ‘please…’

Pribislava nodded. The king turned back to Vojtech.

‘Before we set out for war, I had begun making… inquiries. There is… a young woman… Swabian in her family origins, though she lives in Italy and speaks the Italian tongue. She was born Ludwiga, though she goes by Lodovica. She is the daughter of… Eberhard of Waidbruck, also called da Ponte. This young woman… if she is agreeable… is to be your new wife.’

Vojtech began to shake his head in disbelief, but Pribislava gave him a bracing look. When the King dismissed them both, the crown prince took his mother aside.

‘You’re not seriously siding with Father on this, are you?’ he demanded of his mother.

‘Your father would say—and I would agree with him,’ Pribislava told him, ‘that Alexandrinē brings the family’s patrimony into doubt. The Church won’t say no to a divorce under these circumstances.’

‘No Rychnovský has ever divorced his wife before! Not even Bohodar 2., when his wife’s faithlessness was made known, set her aside! Would you have me bear the ignominy of being the first to do so?’

‘I would have you rather bear the honour of being the husband to a worthier woman,’ Pribislava told him seriously. ‘And it strikes me that this Lodovica da Ponte is indeed a much worthier woman.’

Pribislava again gave one of her deep, wet coughs. Her son looked to her with worry.

‘You should go to Zlata,’ he told her.

Pribislava looked nearly as unhappy with the prospect of seeing the well-built blonde physician as Vojtech did about divorcing his wife and marrying anew. For some reason, his mother seemed to have taken a very strong and very personal dislike to the Kráľ’s new leech. But he knew she would do it. Just as he knew that with both of his parents against him—he would marry this Lodovica da Ponte.

~~~​

Lodovica da Ponte arrived in Olomouc on the twenty-third of September, and was greeted civilly—if none too warmly—by her groom, Vojtech. The Swabian-Italian woman had a round, earnest, fair oval face and a single heavy braid of dark walnut brown draped over one slender shoulder. It was at once clear to Vojtech, exactly why his parents had selected her among the possible candidates. There was none of the wild desire or the voluptuous layering of thoughts in her which characterised his now-former wife. Lodovica’s gaze was as clear and as pure as daylight—almost angelic in its naivety. After conversing with the young woman for some time, Vojtech found it difficult to believe that she had ever deliberately deceived anyone in her life.

Vojtech sighed to himself as the banns were called. Marrying her would assuredly not bring the kind of fiery passion that Alexandrinē had to his bed. But Lodovica was still a singularly honourable woman and he would do her honour in return.

As for Pribislava, after being treated by Zlata, her fever had broken and her cough was slowly diminishing. It seemed that her dry humours were being restored to their strength. By rights, the Queen ought to have been grateful, but Vojtech’s mother still regarded Zlata with ill-disguised hostility and contempt.

In the meantime, Archbishop Radislav had fallen afoul of the Čističe in Nitra, and he was being blocked in his efforts at reconverting the populace by the Knieža himself, who was evidently fully within his new rights to do so. As a result, Kráľ Bohodar took it upon himself—even injured and dismembered as he was—to travel himself to Nitra and to speak with Bystrík in person.

~~~​

‘Well, uncle?’ asked Vratislav Mikulčický amiably. ‘What’s this I hear about you going back to Olomouc?’

‘It’s over,’ said Bystrík, turning away from his nephew and looking out over the courtyard. ‘I got what I wanted from the war—and more. There’s no point in continuing to tear the realm apart over questions about God.’

‘Questions about God?’ laughed Vratislav. ‘Pardon me, uncle, but I thought you were one of the veriacich yourself! I thought you were awaiting the fires from Ráb!’

‘I had been,’ Bystrík sighed. ‘But there are other considerations that I need to make as a lord of the realm. There has been enough bloodshed already, enough burning. It needs to stop.’

Vratislav clicked his tongue in disappointment. ‘Well, this won’t do, uncle. This won’t do at all.’

Bystrík’s breath blew out in sudden shock. He looked down at his chest and saw emerging from it the blood-stained tip of the dagger that his nephew had just stabbed him through the heart with. His vision swam as he turned where he stood. And there was Vratislav. Still smiling.

Bystrík tried to breathe, to speak—but his lungs wouldn’t work anymore. Vratislav watched as his uncle slumped nervelessly to his knees and then to the floor.

‘I think your successor needs a bit more… nerve,’ Vratislav murmured in his uncle’s ear—not caring whether he could hear him or not.

 

[Revan86]

SEVENTEEN
Two Executions
10 October 1321 – 15 March 1323

The fact that Vratislav Mikulčický had killed his uncle to attain overlordship of Nitra was widely known thereafter, and the new Knieža himself made no attempt to disguise it. In his telling Bystrík’s death was a just comeuppance for his apostasy from the pure path of the Čističe. Of course, Bystrík’s shuffling of the mortal coil had brought Vratislav himself a great deal of wealth and influence. And Vratislav had made no objection to attaining these bonuses to his spoil.

Kráľ Bohodar was, to put it mildly, deeply dismayed by this turn of events. He had been the one, after all, to persuade Bystrík to return to the Faith. It also precipitated for him something of a crisis of conscience.

Under Moravian law, since deep in Slavic antiquity in the codes inherited from the ancestors, there were only two crimes which merited the penalty of death: high treason and arson. The reasoning behind these laws was that the only deeds considered so heinous that restitution in goods or service could not be made for them, were direct attacks against the stability of the realm, or against the well-being of the entire community. (And in towns and villages built entirely out of wood, arson was precisely such an attack.) As a result, executions in Moravia were far rarer than in most of the rest of Europe at this time.

It was unthinkable to Kráľ Bohodar that he should change the law on account of only one man. Yet such a crime as Vratislav Mikulčický’s also could not go unanswered. The sole recourse that remained to him, then, was a sort of private justice: an eye for an eye.

Given the enormity of what Vratislav had done to his uncle to attain power, Bohodar quickly discovered that he would have no lack of help. At least four people in Nitra were willing—without any added incentive—to join him in the endeavour of removing Vratislav permanently from power.

But when Bohodar, by himself, contemplated the horror of ending a life in secret, from the shadows… it became nearly too much to bear. Even such a man as Vratislav! Was Bohodar any better a man than Vratislav, if he arrogated to himself the right to deal out death without recourse to the law? Could he be considered any better a king than Radomír hrozný, were such the case? But once he had set his hand to the plough, he had to finish the furrow.

The king developed a sudden and alarming interest in venomous creatures. Among the merchants in Olomouc, there was one who had ventured as far as the lands of Hind, and had there acquired a reptile of most sinister and noxious reputation—called a bungar. The creature, a lengthy ophidian with a penchant for arranging itself in a loose coil, had handsomely shining bluish-black scales broken every several inches by rings of white—its flat, spade-shaped head bobbed lazily in the midst of its coil, and its jet-black eyes gleamed with mischief. The king paid a handsome amount for this bungar, and the merchant had placed it in a wicker basket for safe transport.

The king began limping back to the castle at Olomouc, when the wicker basket at his side began feeling strangely light. Looking down into it he found to his alarm that the bungar had escaped. The king frantically began looking around for the blue-black serpent, but it was only at the cry of a child on the street that he turned over his shoulder. And on that shoulder, he was looking into the spade-shaped face of the bungar, its black eyes regarding him with placid curiosity, flicking its tongue in and out of its mouth.

Thankfully the merchant had told him that the bungar was not likely to bite during the day, when it was mostly concerned with gathering heat for itself rather than hunting—otherwise the king might have lost his head completely in panic. He coaxed the reptile off of his shoulder and back into its basket, took it back up to the castle and gifted it to Zlata with full warnings about its temper and venomous potency. The young physician promised she would take care of the exotic wyrm, and also pledged to be careful with it—particularly at night.

That autumn, Vojtech Rychnovský fell ill with the white plague, and began coughing up blood, with his skin taking on a sickly white pallor. He was brought before his father, who bestowed upon him the royal touch and granted him a medallion for his cure. However, he continued to be wracked with the bloody coughs. Zlata, who had been inspired after working with the bungar’s venom to experiment with several alchemical treatments, was given charge of the patient.

The king happened upon her while she was synthesising a particular ointment which she said might be effective. The unpleasant tang of alchemical reagents met his nose as she worked: wood spirit, oil of vitriol, soda ash and what Zlata called ‘salt of pomel’. Bohodar was able to understand at least part of the process by which Zlata was formulating her ointment, and what the end result would look like, but it wasn’t quite clear to the king how the ointment was supposed to counteract the white plague. But the treatment, miraculously, worked. After merely a week of Vojtech rubbing the ointment on his skin, his colour began to change for the better—and even his cough subsided and his lymph nodes reduced to their normal size.

‘You’ve done remarkably well,’ the Kráľ told Zlata.

‘I’m happy I could help,’ said Zlata meekly. ‘I had been working on an antidote to the bungar’s venom, but it didn’t work. I’m glad it did work to treat your son’s plague.’

Bohodar also learned who it was who was scheming against Gruša: Hrabě Krešislav. Somehow, he had to bring this tide of murders and plots which seemed to be without end in his kingdom to an end. But Bohodar felt himself to be a colossal hypocrite even in this venture. For wasn’t he plotting another man’s death outside the law?

That particular plan took a turn for the better one of his agents, Hrabě Sokol, managed to get hold of another exotic creature. Sokol presented the king with a small wooden box, which he opened. Inside there was a dark, many-legged shape. The king thought he saw ten or more red spots upon its black bulbous body.

‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Sokol. ‘But quite deadly.’

‘What is she?’

‘The Moldavian who sold her to me called her a qara qurt—the Khazar word means “black worm”. As you can see, however, she’s not a worm but a spider. Her sisters are found around the Black Sea and beyond—one bite of hers can even kill a camel. Don’t worry: she only bites when she’s upset.’

‘How can we get her to bite Vratislav, then?’

‘Leave that part to me,’ said Sokol. ‘With your say-so, of course.’

‘I do say so.’

Several weeks passed after the king had passed this death sentence in secret upon Vratislav. Whatever Sokol did, however, did the trick quite effectively. The qara qurt bit the knieža as he slept, and then crawled away. Vratislav’s attendants in Nitra found the bite-mark on him, though it can’t be said that they exerted themselves overmuch to find an antidote to the spider’s toxin. Or that they tried too hard to figure out where the Moldavian black widow had come from.

The Čističe, however, found themselves without their most powerful patron in Moravia. The official Church of Moravia quickly took the reins as the new knieža, Vratislav’s younger brother Vladimír Mikulčický, was a regular church-goer. Vladimír also happened to be every bit as talented a schemer as his brother… though with a few more scruples. The Kráľ very quickly placed him on his Privy Council, where it soon turned out…

‘My Kráľ, I have gotten wind of a plot against the life of your brother, Hviezdoslav.’

‘Hviezdoslav?!’

Bohodar fell into a black rage. Someone in the kingdom was planning to kill the brother whom the king loved most: the same brother who had accompanied him on campaign even to the northernmost edge of the Gulf of Bothnia, and with whom he had shared the sorrow of missing a wife. Whoever the would-be murderer was, they would do well not to expect any leniency from the Kráľ. Attempting murder upon a brother that he loved—the Kráľ would put forward the case that such was tantamount to high treason.

However, the recent plot which had been carried to a successful completion, had nonetheless taken a toll on the king and his sense of self-worth.

‘My love,’ Pribislava suggested to him one day, ‘I do not know what has weighed so heavily upon your heart these days, and I know better than to ask of you something you would keep secret. But I still wish to take some of the burden off of your soul.’

Bohodar embraced Pribislava tenderly. ‘I appreciate that.’

‘I know!’ exclaimed his gregarious consort. ‘Why not hold a feast here in Olomouc? Showing your face to the kingdom and speaking with your subjects should help take your mind off of what is bothering you.’

​

Bohodar privately doubted this, but he assented to his wife’s idea. The feast was held after Theophany that year, and his wife furnished forth a wondrous spread for the occasion, with the choicest Bukovin wines, smoked meats and game-fowl, pastries and jellied fruits. The guests all clearly enjoyed themselves, and Viačeslava even stepped forward to congratulate the Kráľ on the clear care and style he had exhibited for the occasion.

‘That was none of my doing,’ the Kráľ said modestly, ‘but my wife’s, entirely.’

Pribislava beamed.

And the Kráľ felt much better indeed. But only for a short while.

Knieža Vladimír Mikulčický pulled his liege aside as the feast was winding down.

‘Milord, I have news about the plot against your brother’s life.’

‘Well? Spit it out, man.’

‘You will not like it.’

‘I already don’t like it, Vladimír,’ Bohodar growled. ‘Someone is trying to kill my brother. Tell me.’

‘Your… former daughter-in-law, O Kráľ, is behind it,’ he told the Kráľ. ‘Alexandrinē Komnēnē. I have obtained the proofs, including letters to various agents and silver paid for services rendered. I traced them all back to her chamber-maids.’

Bohodar ground his teeth. ‘Detain her, and bring her before me.’

The feast ended, the guests were sent home, and Alexandrinē was found and arrested, and hauled before the king in the audience chamber of Olomouc Castle. She tried her best to look dignified, holding her head high, as the king regarded her coldly over his steepled fingers. It was several long moments before he spoke.

‘Vladimír,’ he called to the Knieža of Nitra. ‘Present your proofs and case.’

Vladimír stepped forward and presented to the accused and to the other members of the Privy Council, the proofs of her involvement in the plot to destroy Hviezdoslav Rychnovský. The King then called Alexandrinē to speak in her own defence—and after she had done so, he asked the Privy Council to decide upon a verdict of her guilt. The verdict came back unanimous. She was guilty.

‘Once before you have betrayed my trust,’ the king told her. ‘You used my castle to hold your secret assignations with the jarl of Stolp. Your former husband—my son—remonstrated with me upon that occasion, saying that he had forgiven you. He thought that, if he gave you another chance, you could redeem yourself.’

Alexandrinē blinked, but said nothing in response. The Kráľ went on.

‘I showed you leniency once. I made sure that your divorce from my son was quiet, private and dignified. I did not have you sent home in disgrace, but allowed you to stay on. I see now that that was a mistake. I suffered a blood-sucking lamprey to live and fester within my walls, and plot the destruction of my own brother. By so doing, you have also plotted treason against me, and you shall suffer a traitor’s death. No leniency shall be granted to you.’

Alexandrinē Komnēnē was taken out to the courtyard under guard, and beheaded with the axe in full view of the garrison and castle residents.

 

[Revan86]

EIGHTEEN
A Queen’s Jealousy
18 March 1323 – 17 June 1324

Kráľ Bohodar winced as Zlata’s fingers re-bandaged the ugly, weeping flap of his own flesh that had so far refused to heal properly. The physician’s touch was both gentle and firm. But the strong wine with which she had cleaned his wound stung as hard as ever. And the pain of his old wounds would not ameliorate itself for anyone… not even Bivka.

‘The good news is, the inflammation has gone down,’ Zlata told him after cleaning the wound once more. ‘The flesh should start to knit clean now.’

‘About time,’ the king winced.

‘How is little Radomír doing?’ asked Zlata.

Vojtech’s new wife Lodovica had conceived, and given birth to a son in late July of the year 6832. The baby, named Radomír after Bohodar’s father, had both his mother’s and father’s good looks. Fair, he was of a lighter colouring than the past three generations of royal Rychnovských. It seemed he rather took after the red-headed Moldavian members of the family, as well as after Lodovica’s fairer Swabian forebears.

Radomír, who stood second in line for the throne, had despite being only several months old already demonstrated a keen, almost intuitive grasp of the thoughts and behaviours of the adults around him. Given all of the intrigues that had swirled around the Moravian court in Olomouc over the past years, it seemed he would need every bit of that intuition when the time came for him to rule.

Bohodar winced once more, for reasons which had nothing to do with the pain or the sting of the strong wine on his wound. Radomír was so young, so fragile. And the thought that he was being raised among such a brood of vipers troubled Bohodar deeply—some of these vipers having been reared within the walls by none other than himself. Knieža Vladimír Mikulčický, more credit to the man, did his work and he did it well. But it was still a heavy burden on the king, to know of so many murder plots and other sordid secrets happening within his realm.

One of these plots, it had become known to him, was directed against his elder son. Bohodar had hoped that the capture and execution of one would-be murderess—one who had conspired against his immediate family—would deter any such future attempts. Evidently such a hope was in vain. Particularly when it came out that the murder plot against Vojtech had been engineered by Alexandrinē’s former lover, the Pomeranian Swede Håkon of Stolp.

‘That bad, huh?’ Zlata asked. He could tell there was a gentle smile on her face by the tone of her voice. ‘Maybe I should have a look at him?’

‘Oh, no,’ said the king. ‘No, Radomír’s healthy and peachy-faced.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

The door to the chamber where Zlata was treating the king had been left slightly ajar. Through the crack in the doorjamb the queen beheld the physician treating the king.

Pribislava felt a sudden hot, green, sickening wave of jealousy wash over her as she watched the younger woman handle her husband’s torn and wounded flesh. Even though she knew that her Daška would never knowingly betray her, seeing that woman so close to him still felt like a betrayal. Add to that that Zlata was blonde, beautiful, young… Pribislava was suddenly too-keenly aware of her age, and of the toll that heavy drinking had taken on her own beauty, which had once been so bright.

~~~

Olomouc—once upon a time, a simple Slavic settlement with a wooden stockade, with steep-roofed zemnica-style houses of aged grey wood, adorned still with posts lovingly carven by traditional carpenters whose embrace of Christianity had not yet chased the serpents and dragons and sun wheels from their hearts—was now a bustling city. The roads of Olomouc were no longer packed dirt, but cobbled, and they had narrowed with the passing of years as the courtyards and fence-spaces between the zemnicy had grown out shop fronts, replaced thatch with red tile, lined foundations with masonry, layered stucco thickly upon bare wood face. Crystal and cut glass of the highest quality from Lužica, and silver from Hory Kutné, had brought great wealth to Olomouc, and also some of the most exquisite craftsmanship in the arts of glass-blowing and silver-smithing to be found in all of Europe. The blacksmithing of bombards in Budějovice also placed Moravia upon the vanguard of military technology.

Olomouc was the beating, pulsing heart of a large multicultural realm embracing five disparate Slavic tribes—Bohemians, Moravians, Silesians, Nitrans and Carpatho-Rusins—running 1,075 kilometres in length from west to east, from Aš to Petrová. It lay almost precisely halfway between Köln, the cultural (and, as often as not, political) capital of the East Franks; and Mozyř, which had overshadowed Kiev as the political and spiritual core of the Rus’. Olomouc was a very real crossroads of the European subcontinent, the apex of a great cultural bridge between East and West.

Olomouc was, it hardly needs be said, home to a great many people as well—far more than there had ever been before. Both those who had come in from the countryside, and those who had been born and bred here. From the first ruler of Olomouc who had borne the Kráľ’s name, until now, had passed fifteen generations. Those generations had been kind to the populace of Olomouc: on the whole, the Moravian people who lived in the city were healthy and flourishing.

But at the heart of all this prosperity, there was a certain darkness. The sunlight which gleamed upon the stone castle walls trailed in its wake long and looming patches of shade. Light and shadow; east and west; life and death. The very duality that enriched Olomouc’s material life, also took a significant toll upon the city’s soul.

The churches of Olomouc, the magnificent cathedrals which dated back to Kráľ Eustach’s time, still stood large and magnificent. But fewer and fewer people came to the Divine Liturgy and the Vigils regularly. With more commerce and crafts, came less time for prayer. It was easy in Olomouc to find distractions from the holy things. The townspeople spent more time and energy acquiring wealth and influence than they did in acquiring the presence of the Holy Spirit. And what was worse, the noble house of Bijelahrvatskić had gone extinct in the male line, while the duchy of Užhorod had fallen into the hands of the Mojmírovci. In part because of this acquisition of noble power, the struggles within Moravia the Great had become that much more dangerous.

And at the pinnacle of this city of contrasts—at the heart of the castle at the heart of Olomouc—sat Kráľ Bohodar 4.

In many ways, the Kráľ was much like his city. Bohodar was refined, clever, an astute scholar and an acknowledged expert in—among other things—the natural sciences. His translation and commentaries on the Treatises of Hippokratēs were broadly considered to be authoritative in Slavic-speaking lands. He also had a personality which—as most guests at Olomouc would attest—was generally modest, agreeable and obliging. But as Kráľ—far from standing above, let alone curtailing, the noble violence and clandestine struggles for power—he had instead embroiled the royal family in them, thinking that in doing so he was serving and advancing the cause of justice.

And at his side, always, was his Kráľovná, Pribislava of Ňamec. Like him, she was wont to be a gracious, kind-hearted and open-handed hostess. The two of them had bonded over their daughter’s infirmity of the flesh. But their consanguinity—a secret unwisely hidden by those who loved them and then cruelly exposed by those who hated them—had dealt them a blow. The death of Dorotea had dealt them yet another.

The atmosphere of secrets in Olomouc placed Pribislava on edge. The teenage rivalries and inadequacies that had brought Pribislava and her husband together rose easily to the surface here.

And so when it came to the court physician, Pribislava found herself stepping outside her nature.

~~~​

‘Môj milovaný,’ said Pribislava, ‘may I speak with you a moment?’

‘Certainly, Bivka,’ said Bohodar.

‘It’s about Zlata.’

‘What about her?’

‘She has… been making insinuations about me. I… know that my parentage is sinful, and I know that thanks to my marriage to you I… should have a thicker skin about such things. But it’s too much… it’s simply too much…’ Pribislava looked to be on the verge of tears.

Bohodar gaped. Zlata, who had done nothing for the family but good? Zlata, to whom a vision of Dorotea had commended his care? Zlata—disdain Pribislava for her parentage, or for her marriage? Clearly something was out of joint here. Bohodar, however, suspended judgement until he could hear more about it.

‘I think you’d better sit down and tell me more about it, dear.’

Pribislava unfolded to him a tale of covert glances and cliques among the women at the court, and how she had been excluded or laughed at from them, and how it could not be mere coincidence that Zlata was at the centre of them all.

For his part, Bohodar didn’t quite know what to make of this story. Owing to a certain male bias on his part, he naturally characterised the intrigues of women in a particular way based on his experience, and he at least fancied he understood the subtle cruelties that a smirk or a turned shoulder could exercise. He credited his wife with enough subtlety herself to have… exaggerated such slights for his benefit. But from all he could tell, the slight that Pribislava had felt had been genuine.

Once a suitable pretext for doing so was found several days later, Zlata was dismissed from the court.

Kráľ Bohodar must have known on some level, consciously or not, that Pribislava’s antipathy to Zlata had been born of jealousy. The physician he appointed in her place was as unobjectionable to his queen as he could possibly find. It was, in fact, the recently-widowed Gruša, their daughter.

 

[Revan86]

NINETEEN
Gathering the Strays
19 December 1324 – 5 March 1328

‘Come here, Mírek! You’re going to be my pet!’

Said Radomír gave a hurried, frightened shake of the head as Katarína Sjätopolkovná bore down on him with menacing intent, a leash and collar already clutched in her little fist. The little four-year-old made a volte-face and made a break for it—with the equally-driven seven-year-old already in hot pursuit of her quarry, bright copper elf-locks flying out behind her.

Little Radomír’s legs were short, and it was lucky for him that Katarína wasn’t quite as sure on her feet as he was on his. Katarína lost ground careening around a couple of corridor corners after him. The chase took them through the one around the kitchen—and then through it. Radomír dodged nimbly around crates of onions and turnips and sacks of flour as Katarína huffed steadily behind him. At last Radomír ran straight into the castle’s cook—a formidable, broad-shouldered woman whom Radomír had ample cause to fear. With one arm leveraging irresistible strength, the cook yarked Radomír by the collar and held him fast. The other arm shot out and grabbed Katarína by the shoulder before she had a chance to register the reverse of the tables and turn about to flee.

‘And what do you two think you’re doing?’ the cook chuffed at them.

‘She wan’ make me ‘er pet,’ Radomír pointed a stubby little finger right at Katarína.

‘Mírek, you are going to be my husband,’ Katarína told him, crossing her arms imperiously. It was rather impressive how the little girl could manage that degree of bravado under the cook’s glare. ‘That’s been settled between your grandfather and my sister. That means you have to do what I say!’

‘The only one who gives orders in my kitchen is me,’ said the cook to the two little nobles. ‘And right now the two of you are both getting out.’

Leading them both painfully by the ears, the cook put Radomír and Katarína out of the kitchen. Then she placed her hands on her hips and glared at them both. Both Radomír and Katarína knew better than to talk back to the cook—among all the commoners in the castle, she was the one that both of them, young as they were, knew well enough not to cross.

‘Both of you need to listen to the priest during the homily! Katarína Sjätopolkovná: the husband is the head of the wife, not the other way around. “Wives, obey your husbands.” That’s what the Apostle says.’

Katarína said nothing, but her small mouth worked itself into a mutinous look.

‘And you, Radomír Rychnovský! The Apostle also says “Husbands, love your wives.”’

‘Me? Love? Her?’ Radomír looked positively scandalised.

‘God said “It is not good that the man should be alone”, and so “male and female, created He them,” with the woman from the rib of the man,’ quoted the cook. ‘Believe you me: the day will come sooner than you think when it’s not her chasing you, but the other way around. Now… both of you, Katarína and Radomír—make your peace between yourselves.’

Whether or not any of the cook’s lecture had stuck between their ears she had no way to know, but there was no gainsaying her on this last request. Not gladly, but with some grumbling and dragging of feet, the two of them made their apologies and their peace with each other.

‘Good,’ said the cook. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s work needs doing in the kitchen that isn’t chasing around a pair of little squirrels.’

The cook slammed the door to the kitchen. Radomír and Katarína were left standing awkwardly together, each one daring an occasional glance at the other.

‘I really am sorry,’ Katarína told the younger boy, holding up the leash and collar. ‘I’ll go and put these away. After that, let’s go up on the wall together! You like doing that, right?’

Radomír gave Katarína a tentative nod.

~~~​

One of the legacies of the late Knieža Yurii of Podkarpatská which he had left to the new maršal Vojtech, and to the Moravian realm as a whole, was the proving-grounds where the bombardy had been first tried. These proving-grounds had been immensely useful not only in improving the design of the bombarda, but also in improving the structure and defensive outlay of the castle walls. After all, Moravian-designed bombardy had not stayed a secret for long. The Galicians had already managed to waylay several examples of the weapon, and the East Franks were quickly developing their own variant. The need for an improved defence was every bit as necessary as that for an improved offence.

Thankfully Vojtech, the king’s son, was no slouch when it came to his understanding of Euclid. If direct fire from bombard-shot on a wall was so devastating… then, what about less-direct impact? Vojtech experimented with models of sloped walls, and soon discovered that forcing the enemy to fire from an oblique angle would give the walls a better fighting chance. He also discovered that he could post bastions at each ‘vertex’ and thus eliminate blind spots in the wall defence. And so he began a project to renovate the town and castle walls of Olomouc.

Vojtech wasn’t the only one who had these ideas for renovating castle walls in response to the development of the bombarda. In fact, the whole castle design came to be known as the trace italienne. But Olomouc was one of the first cities to completely erect one of these polygonal ‘floor plans’ to the outer walls. Znojmo would not be far behind.

As uniquely-privileged youngsters, Radomír Rychnovský (grandson of the king) and Katarína Sjätopolkovná (great-granddaughter of Knieža Yurii) were allowed access to the garrison, and thus were allowed to play on the walls, as long as they kept off the crenellations and away from the weapons in the bastions. The two children now peered out over the eastern wall of the city along the river, over the mills and bridges and earthen embankments. Both Radomír and Katarína shared the exhilaration up here, as they stared off into the distant mist. The two of them simply enjoyed the sensation of being halfway between the green and the great blue, of being suspended halfway between the earth and her firmament. For Radomír, it was a feast for the eyes—looking out over the distant fields and hedges and forests. For Katarína—she enjoyed the more tangible sensations of the touch of the warm breeze up here as it teased and caressed the hair around her ears.

Suddenly Radomír looked across to Katarína. The two of them were going to be husband and wife one day…? He didn’t understand the full import of this except on the most abstract of levels: it would be like otec and mamka living together. But now he was watching Katarína with the wind blowing in her hair. And he supposed to himself that perhaps—perhaps, one day, when he was ready… but not yet!—it wouldn’t be so hard to love her.

~~~

‘I get rather tired of the scent of my own burnt flesh,’ complained Bohodar.

‘Gripe all you want, Father,’ Gruša replied, ‘but you can’t argue with results, can you? That same flesh is actually holding together cleanly now.’

‘True enough, but it still stings like hell.’

‘More effective than those smells and bells and candles you were trying out before,’ Gruša clucked. ‘And my remedies get you in less trouble with dear Mother Church, as well.’

‘Those weren’t for medical reasons. Those were to obtain insights into the Divine.’

‘Whatever you say, Father,’ Gruša assuaged him. Not that his daughter had ever had much use for either the Church or for her father’s mystical experimentations to begin with, but at least she had a bedside manner. ‘Now, you should lay back and rest. Sleep if you can. Drink some ale and eat some food, but not too much meat. We’ve just added plenty of heat to your body from the outside; we don’t need your humours within overheating as well from the excess.’

Bohodar grumbled. He knew as well as she did that her advice was sound, and he would of course do as she bade him, but he was still getting old and entitled to be a bit of a sore tooth. Besides, being a sore tooth was a sure sign that he was healing in body.

As he lay back and contemplated his predicament since the war with the Čističe, he rather marvelled that in his state he had been able at all to complete his translation of the Treatises. He was his own worst critic when it came to his scholarly work, but evidently the learned men of the Slavic-speaking nations were happy to recognise his contributions. Kráľ Bohodar 4. was now recognised in his own right as a scholar—not necessarily on par with his ancestors Slovoľubec or Letopisár, but certainly edging toward the same league.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my liege,’ came a familiar voice.

He must have succeeded in dozing off, given how he had no awareness of the passage of time, or of Knieža Ruslav Rychnovský-Vyšehrad entering his chamber. But there he was. It looked like he came bearing good news despite his apology.

‘What is it, Ruslav?’ asked the king groggily.

‘The Italian envoy has arrived in Olomouc,’ Ruslav informed him. ‘He is requesting an audience. I informed him that you were indisposed, but he did say he had a message he wanted to give you in person—from your cousin, Prince Anastasios of that land.’

‘Anastasios?’ asked Bohodar. ‘I haven’t heard from him in ages. What do you think he wants?’

‘My best guess, sire, is that he stands eager to renew the ties that existed between your late father, and his father Despot Lucio. I would expect from him a handful of large promises, only a fraction of which he will be good for… but I leave that particular matter to your discretion.’

‘Thank you, Ruslav,’ the king answered him.

‘There is one other thing,’ said Ruslav. ‘Our kinsman Zobor 2. has at last accepted your demand that he reconvert to the True Faith. The last stray among the nobles has been gathered, and the last outposts of the Čističe in the realm will soon find themselves without support and aid from certain high places.’

‘God be praised.’

‘Indeed, sire. Accept my well-wishes for your recovery—I pray it may be soon.’

Bohodar regarded his kinsman and knieža. One of the things he liked about Knieža Ruslav was his sincerity. Had such well-wishes come from any other courtier he might have discounted them as mere polite obsequies. But Ruslav was a blunt fellow who said what was on his mind, and Bohodar valued his good opinion.

After Ruslav left, the round, unbearded face of Bohodar’s younger son Vasilii made itself shown to him. The thirteen-year-old lad took his father’s hand and held it warmly in his own. Speaking of honourable men of whom little evil could be spoken—such a man Vasilii was quickly becoming. Bohodar clasped his son’s hand back.

‘And what would you ask of me today, Vasilii?’

‘Only to see you, Father,’ the boy said. ‘Mamka said you were better. Forgive my boldness, but I wanted to see that for myself.’

It was with a sudden pang—nothing to do with his wounds—that Bohodar understood how much Vasilii resembled the older sister he had barely had a chance to know in life.

‘I’d best be going now,’ Vasilii told him. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.’

‘No,’ said his father. ‘My son—if you’d like, you may stay. Speak to me of your studies, or of anything that pleases you.’

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY
Daughter of Death
28 January 1329 – 1 April 1329

Agrafena Rychnovská had been proud of the work she had done in helping her father’s wounds to heal. But all of that had now been undone in an instant. As the heated surgical knife she was wielding slid in her grasp, it fatally fell across the major artery in Kráľ Bohodar’s neck.

Blood spurted in massive gouts from the gaping wound as the horrified daughter whose fault the injury was stumbled back in shock. The blade of the knife sliced upwards from there, tearing across the unconscious king’s face.

Gruša rushed to get some clean rags, but by then there was more blood outside the king than in him. She held the rags in place as they quickly went from off-white to red, and feverishly spoke prayers all the while that the damage she had caused might be undone. But it wasn’t. The king stopped breathing and his heartbeat ceased.

Without intent, Gruša had just killed her own father.

~~~​

Such black tidings could not be kept quiet for long. Gruša, shaken and drenched in the royal blood, had willingly surrendered herself into the guards’ custody. She was then led off to the fonsels to await her judgement.

The first to be informed of the king’s death were his queen and his eldest son. Queen Pribislava was inconsolable. She wept for a long time. For many days after that she did not eat nor, more alarmingly, drink. In the few instants where she could make herself cogently understood in the strained voice between bouts of weeping, she blamed herself for her husband’s death. Having insisted upon Zlata’s dismissal, she felt responsible for the consequent decision to appoint Gruša as the court physician.

Vojtech, too, met the news of his father’s sudden death with dismay. It couldn’t be said that Vojtech was particularly unready to make the necessary pilgrimage to Velehrad to bid his father a final farewell and assume authority himself. He had long known that the rule was coming to him, and his father had lived with his wounds a long time. But neither did the taciturn and unassuming man particularly relish becoming king under circumstances such as these. With his father’s death coming so suddenly and inauspiciously at the hands of one of his own children, no doubt there would be whispers and insinuations about it—and not just in the Moravian court.

However, he simply could not leave his sister locked up. Upon learning that his father’s death had indeed been a tragic accident, that Gruša had surrendered herself at once to the garrison without a single word of complaint, and that she was genuinely distraught over their father’s death, he had her not only released but reinstated to her position as court physician. Vojtech had always been a forbearing and compassionate person, and it was broadly agreed, particularly within the Church, that his forgiveness of his sister boded well for his reign.

 

[Revan86]

The Reign of Vojtech 2. Rychnovský, Kráľ of Veľká Morava

TWENTY-ONE
Diligence
1 April 1329 – 21 October 1329

‘Zdravas Kráľa! Zdravas Vojtech!’

Vojtech Rychnovský presented a powerful and vigorous figure—purely from a physical perspective, he was easily among the fittest of his father’s retainers. Watching a man of such excellent conditioning practise with the blade or watching him spar with the other družinniki was considered to be one of the rare privileges of the Olomouc garrison… better by far than watching an expert gašparko tumble and juggle in the streets below!

And his mind was just as keen as his body. He understood the field of battle better than veteran soldiers twice his age, and he easily grasped the dynamics and the potentials of the new weaponry that had been bequeathed to him by his father and by Knieža Yurii. He understood as well as anyone else at this time, that the age of pitched battles upon the field was coming to a close, and that siege machinery and defences would soon determine the outcomes of wars and fates of nations.

Still the tales of his ado with Eastmund, the Sheriff of Papworth, were still told and retold among the veterans of Bohodar 4.’s English war. That deadly dance between the two masters of the blade at the Battle of Llyn had brought the whole of the battlefield to a halt, as the Moravian and West Saxon armies could do nothing but watch. The subtle manœuvres, the placement of the feet, the weaving, thrusting and cutting had all been executed with such precision and skill that fewer than one in ten of the soldiers on the battlefield could see and understand what was being done. Some even said that the spirit of the valiant Kaloján had visited itself upon his descendant. And of course, those who had lived to tell of it, who had returned from those Welsh shores, had embellished upon the tale with each retelling. Even veterans of the garrison now looked upon the king with utter awe.

Those who didn’t regard the new king with such adulation, were soon impressed with his magnanimity and liberality of spirit. His first act as king had been to pardon his sister for the medical mishap which had ended his father’s life. He had followed that up by making an exquisite gift to the Knieža of Nitra in thanks for having kept the realm safe from the complots against the lives of members of the royal family. And he had topped even that by forgiving the Baroness of Bítov, who had owed him a significant debt of honour.

Yet Vojtech still felt intensely the pressures of being king. From the time he was a young boy he had felt himself to be remarkably awkward and uncertain among other people—particularly people in large groups. Not a particularly good quality to have, when it came to being a leader of men. He found he couldn’t easily extricate himself as often or as long as he would have liked from meetings of the Zhromaždenie and the Privy Council.

In fact, reappointing the Privy Council had been one of Vojtech’s first duties as king. It had seemed only logical to keep Ruslav Rychnovský-Vyšehrad, the Knieža of Česko, in his old position as kancelár, where he had done such excellent service in the past. And for similar reasons, despite them not getting along so well at first, letting Vladimír Mikulčický keep his seat on the Privy Council had also seemed to the new king a rather easy choice.

Slightly more troublesome were the questions of how to appoint the šafár and the maršal. Although he wasn’t necessarily the best choice for the job (and although there was still a bit of bad blood between the royal Rychnovských and the Nisa cadet branch on account of Kaloján’s famous elopement with Bohumila), it seemed only politic given the man’s influence to give the job of šafár to the elderly Zobor Rychnovský-Nisa. The position of maršal was much more difficult to fill. Vojtech himself had occupied that post for his father, and his standards for his own replacement were exacting. No one among the nobility satisfied Vojtech’s idea of what the position demanded, and so he had begun to look toward the commoners instead. Ultimately, he decided on a lowborn, black-bearded Uhro-Rusin named Aleksei to fill the post. Evidently Aleksei had had a rather chequered past, but he understood fortifications and he knew how to supply armies in the field, and that was good enough for Vojtech… at least for now.

‘Husband,’ said his Swabian-Italian wife Lodovica, ‘you must actually come to the meetings of the Privy Council. You can’t leave me to deal with them all the time.’

‘I don’t do that, do I?’

‘Oftener than I’d like,’ Lodovica answered him honestly. Drat the woman, did she always have to be so blunt? ‘I am not a Slav, Vojtech: I’m a German who grew up speaking Italian. Even though I have your trust—which I value—I am still, in their view, an outsider. A Westerner. My word carries sadly little weight with them, and my motives are often suspect.’

‘That’s not a very good reason,’ Vojtech grumbled. His first wife, Alexandrinē Komnenē, had been partly Slavic, after all—but she had also been a seductress, an adulteress and a woman who had attempted murder upon his kin. By contrast, Lodovica da Ponte had never been anything but modest, self-controlled and as clear and honest as daylight.

‘I would agree with you,’ Lodovica said, ‘but there’s little chance of me changing that on my own.’

Vojtech sighed and took the hint. ‘Very well. I shall come to the next meeting of the Privy Council.’

All told, it had been a rather quiet year. There were no rumblings or stirrings of discontent in the realm, religious or political or otherwise. The Galicians were, for once, minding their own border and their own business. The major item requiring attention during this meeting of the Privy Council, in fact, was arranging a wardship agreement for Katarína Sjätopolkovná.

Archbishop Radislav was speaking. ‘The girls’ father perished in battle, in the rebellion of the Čističe. The two of them live with their mother, Sjätosláva. She has been assisting Praksida with her rule in Siget. However, it is my opinion as head of the Church that the younger girl in particular needs a father-figure… and it is traditional that wardship is the responsibility of the liege lord.’

Vojtech sighed. That was just what he needed, another face and another voice—a young one at that—running around the castle. ‘And you are all in agreement about this?’

The Privy Council gave a general noise to that effect.

‘It seems a reasonable arrangement, given that Katarína is betrothed to your son,’ Ruslav opined.

‘And it would give an added security to your line, that she would be looked after here,’ Vladimír Mikulčický added. ‘Given your personal experiences in Siget, I would have thought that obvious, liege.’

Vojtech shuddered. He did indeed remember, and not too fondly, the feast in Siget which had ended in murder when Knieža Yurii had been poisoned to death.

‘Very well,’ Vojtech said. There was still a trace of reluctance in his voice. He wasn’t fond of the idea of taking responsibility for another young child besides his son. But at the same time, he couldn’t very well gainsay the combined appeals to his good nature, to tradition and to the continued security of his line. ‘I shall propose to Praksida that Katarína become my ward.’

Archbishop Radislav inclined his head to the king in gratification and thanks.

‘But then… we are going hunting,’ declared the Kráľ.

~~~​

Vojtech found that he was most at ease when he was outside. Although it didn’t look like he could get out of dealing with the Privy Council, or of becoming the guardian of Katarína Sjätopolkovná, at the least he could grab some time to himself out in the wilds of Opolanie, stalking deer, boar and grouse. Or so he thought at first.

The hunt indeed began well, with the hounds catching onto a scent. Vojtech could tell by their eagerness that whatever they had caught the smell of, it was something large. He went out ahead of the party with the hounds, and soon caught sight of what they’d smelled—a large hart of ten points. The hart lifted its head as soon as heard the hounds, and leapt away from its browse as the enemy animals gave elt. Vojtech was right behind, as indeed was Vladimír Mikulčický close behind.

The Knieža of Nitra had stuck annoyingly close to the Kráľ all day, and several times had tried to engage the king in conversation. Evidently, some matter closely concerning some burgomistress or other under his sway, one Vratislava, was weighing heavily on his mind. But he did not come all this way out into the Opolanie to hear court matters! He was out here for relaxation—and for the occasional spirited chase.

The ten-point buck was giving him one now! The deer bolted and ran for twenty paces. The wind caught in Vojtech’s dark tresses as he spurred his horse to a gallop. He watched as the magnificent animal’s legs bounded in long, nimble leaps along the ground beside him, attempting to outpace his horse. The king admired the animal’s form even as he drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it, securing it against his knuckles as he took aim.

Twenty paces became forty. Vojtech loosed, but the deer dashed sideways into the woods and veered behind a tree, which took the arrow in the trunk. The deer bounded back into the open as Vojtech drew another arrow and fitted it… and again he loosed. This time the arrow struck true, and the hart tumbled mid-flight and sprawled onto its side. The hunt was a success.

~~~​

After the king came back from the Opolanie, he found waiting for him none other than the little girl who was now his ward: Katarína Sjätopolkovná Koceľová—together with her mother, Sjätosláva.

Radomír was already in the courtyard as well when mother and daughter arrived. The little boy regarded his betrothed and old sometimes-playmate, sometimes-tormentor with decidedly mixed feelings. On the one hand, Radomír rather dreaded the sorts of games she might force him to play. But on the other hand… Katarína did look rather good in that green apron; it matched and flattered her bright red hair. She looked almost… well, pretty. Vojtech was not so insensitive to his son’s moods as not to notice the subtle blush that came over Radomír’s cheeks.

‘Buď zdrav, Mírek!’ Katarína waved to him as she caught his eye. Radomír gave a shy wave back.

Katarína’s mother Sjätosláva, an attractive but rather timid woman with straw-coloured hair, stepped forward and gave a deep courtesy to the king.

‘Slava Ísusu Christu, Ó Kráľ,’ Sjätosláva spoke. ‘As your subject I am most deeply grateful for your offer of guardianship of my Katjuša. May God bless and guide you both.’

‘It is my honour, madam.’

‘She is no great beauty, and she can be a stubborn and headstrong girl, so please do not be too lenient with her,’ said the mother besheddingly. Vojtech understood that she was saying so to ward off any evil influence. ‘But you will find she is also level-headed and has a pair of deft hands, like a true Rusin girl ought to have.’

‘I’m sure that she will thrive and serve God well here, madam.’

‘Well,’ said the girl’s mother, interpreting this as a dismissal and turning to her daughter. She cupped Katjuša’s face in her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You be good. Obey the king.’

‘You will come see me, won’t you, mamka?’

‘As often as I can take the time,’ Sjätosláva assured her daughter.

Vojtech let mother and daughter say their good-byes, and then bade his new ward: ‘Would you like to come inside and see your room? We have it all laid out for you.’

‘Thank you, Ó Kráľ,’ said the nine-year-old, ‘but if you need any help around the castle, I’m happy to learn how to do it. Perhaps the cook could use a hand?’

The king was somewhat surprised and indeed rather delighted to see his new charge eager to jump in and make herself useful. He would soon learn that this hadn’t been for appearances’ sake, either. Katarína was good to her word. She gave her considerable youthful energy and her best efforts to learning the various household tasks around the castle: cooking, cleaning, washing, sewing and mending. She surprised not only the king but also the household staff, who hadn’t been expecting a young noblewoman to take their tutelage with such zeal.

On the other hand, Radomír wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that Katarína Sjätopolkovná spent more time helping various people around the castle, than playing with him.

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY-TWO
The Walls of Znojmo
8 February 1330 – 23 April 1332

Olomouc had not only developed into a flourishing city among the capitals of Europe, rivalling Paris and London in sophistication and size, but the splendour of the court therein had never been more pronounced. Taking advantage of its position on the Jerusalem Way and the flow of pilgrims from west to east, the Moravian court took on a sumptuous hospitality which quickly became a source of renown. Guests of every sort flocked to Olomouc, from as far abroad as Scotland, Andalusia, Abyssinia and Estonia. The newfound busyness of the Moravian capital was greatly to the liking of many: diplomats, merchants and dealers in secrets all found the atmosphere remarkably stimulating (and informative).

Svietlana, Vojtech’s eldest daughter by Alexandrinē who had but lately become a débutante, was very much among these. She took like a fish to water to the lively and ever-changing cast of characters in the court, and the ever-shifting ebb and flow of business and passions, friendships and rivalries. She loved the game of building networks of informers on the sly, gathering information from far-off courts—even if it was merely gossip. Although in temperament she was more like her father, she seemed to have taken after her mother in terms of her interests.

But there were two notable exceptions to the general ebullience. One of these, predictably, was Kráľ Vojtech, who absented himself from as many official functions (which seemed to take place nightly) as possible. The other—rather to the King’s surprise—was his ward Katarína.

Katarína was confident and happy enough in the kitchens, the storerooms, the stables, the spinning-room: basically anywhere where she could bury herself in chores and tasks that kept her away from strangers. But on the rare occasions where she was obliged to enter the hall, she constantly kept her back to the wall and didn’t make eye contact with anyone. She was excruciatingly self-conscious, and when spoken to found it near as painful as pulling teeth to get even the simplest of sentences out. It pained Vojtech to see the practical, active little girl he’d come to know and love, become so withdrawn.

Try as he might, though, Katarína Sjätopolkovná’s guardian couldn’t figure out why this was the case.

‘Why not try talking to the other guests?’ asked Vojtech. ‘You might find someone who shares your interests, someone you can relate to.’

Katarína reddened and shifted her feet underneath her. Besheddingly she murmured: ‘I don’t know about that, Ó Kráľ. Is there anything I can get you? Some wine, perhaps?’

Vojtech could tell she was evading him, but declined to press the matter. After all, wasn’t he the same way himself? Any of his work that he could do on his own, in private, he was eager to do. Facing others, particularly those he didn’t already know, was his great dread.

Except, that is, when it came to the battlefield.

~~~

It was far easier for the Kráľ to deal with people from a position of command—for him to understand their ability to manœuvre, to flank, to charge, to defend, to inflict losses upon the enemy. Strategically, the movements of men finally made sense to him. And so he practised at each opportunity he got with his maršal—he had by this time replaced Aleksei with his liege lady Praksida, who was herself no slouch in military matters—and his družinniki. Even in the dead of winter, when the snows lay thick upon the fields and the Morava was glazed over with a thick bright mirror of ice, the Kráľ took it upon himself to keep his troops and himself in top fighting condition and at peak readiness of movement.

There was the added incentive, for Vojtech, of going outside on horseback, during which time he felt freest and most alive. Horses (so the King felt) were far more personable, easier to get along with, and more relaxing to confide in, than people. And so, even during the dead of winter, the fields and forests—and the promise of communion between man and beast that they held forth—called to him.

And so it came to pass that, after the weekly practice mêlée in the ring in the corner of the courtyard by the barracks, the Kráľ ordered the quartermaster and the stable hands to make ready the mounts for the družinniki to go riding. This, even though there were then nigh on two full feet of snow on the ground, and riding would be a chore for both man and beast. But Praksida Sjätopolkovná understood her liege’s bent of mind, and so lent her own authority to Vojtech’s.

They set out through the snow and ice, which lay thick and soft against the hillsides. The going of the horses was slow and arduous. Vojtech was exhilarated, but the men who were accompanying him were significantly less so.

It was the Kráľ’s younger brother Vasilii who first took note of the reluctance of the družina to go out on this riding trip. The long faces and the sullen voices that reached him through the thick muffled silence of the wintry landscape troubled the lad’s conscience, and he spoke up:

‘Let’s keep this ride brief, my brother,’ he told Vojtech. ‘The mood of the men seems… frayed.’

Vojtech sighed. He didn’t relish the thought of returning so soon, but even he couldn’t fail to notice that Vasilii was right. He gave the order to turn back along a shortcut which took them along a shallow ridgeway overlooking the Morava River and ultimately turning back across toward the castle. This looked out over an incline that led down to a partially-sheltered field along a hedgerow.

One of the other družinniki, Ladomír, pointed out the shape of the sheltered part of the field, where there was no snow.

‘What do you think, Ó Kráľ?’ Ladomír asked.

‘What should I think?’

‘That unsnowed line. Don’t you think that could look like an enemy formation?’

Vojtech cocked his head. The unsnowed line formed serrations, probably having been made by the blowing wind which had deposited the snow. These points did indeed look like the tips of helms and spears. The strategist in the king quickly saw how an army might take just such a formation when attacking uphill—but in this position, the cavalry had a clear advantage, even in snow.

‘Let the men couch their lances,’ Vojtech ordered, ‘and work their way down the slope at an angle. Then we will cut a path in between the ranks.’

The družinniki followed their orders. With a yell the Moravian riders cut down across the snowbound slope and plunged into the enemy ‘line’.

Vojtech was able to convince them to take two more passes, but no more before the men were exhausted and ready to return home. He heeded Vasilii’s advice and led them back. But his mind was buzzing with the potential of new cavalry tactics and how they could be used in battles on uneven terrain.

~~~

As Theophany retreated into the distance and Zacchaeus Sunday loomed ever closer, the fast of Lent approaching with it, Lodovica informed her husband of happy news. She had conceived—probably on one particular night the previous November. Vojtech had been in a particularly good mood that night, and Lodovica had taken full advantage.

The Moravian kingdom grew ever more prosperous. Glassworks, hitherto a speciality of the Ores, were set up in Opava. Jihlava now sported large regions of fallow land which were a boon to beekeepers. Even the bowers were able to diversify their fields and sustain larger and more varied flocks of livestock. Přerov in particular was able to boast a large number of Pinzgau cattle which had been imported from regions east.

But there were ever problems to deal with. The fast of Lent passed once more, and Lodovica’s belly grew rounder and heavier. And as the snows melted into spring, there arrived from Znojmo a quincunx of sturdy, muscular townsmen ranging from youth to middle age—clearly some of whom served in the garrison in that town. The king met with them in his audience chamber.

‘What can I do for you good folk?’ asked the king, trying his hardest to disguise his shyness.

‘Milord,’ began the lead burgess, in a tone a trifle highfalutin, ‘I trust that God preserves you with good health and peace. I beseech of you to recall to mind that five years ago, our lord your late father sent you to our town to oversee some new additions to the walls.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ the king confirmed.

‘We thank your Grace for the work, the time and the treasure you took to make such additions. However, the request we have to make of you concerns the old wall behind the bastions, and upon which the bastions were built. The old wall is crumbling—and we need the structure of that wall to support the additions you made. Milord, if you please… a small sum would be all we need to undertake such a project ourselves, not needing disturb your Majesty’s time or the work that would best be spent this season elsewhere.’

Vojtech considered. He couldn’t very well send these good people away empty-handed. After all, Znojmo was a vital defence against the southern border of Moravia Proper—the very heartland of the realm! And yet he truly didn’t want to have to supervise such a project himself. Dealing with all manner of bricklayers and masons and carpenters in Znojmo once again… even the thought of it gave the Kráľ a headache. He put his head in his hands.

‘I’m… I’m sorry to have taken your time, sire. We will withdraw our request.’

‘Wait,’ the king told him with a sigh. ‘My apologies. I was rude. Please—I do wish to help. However, I cannot at this moment spare any manpower or any time to supervise you. Choose one man amongst yourselves to be my liaison and report on your progress, and once this is done I will send you to Knieža Zobor. He will give you the funds you need to undertake the project.’

The burgess at the head of the five beamed his gratitude to the king. ‘Your Grace is most wise and kind,’ he said. ‘Your faith in us shall not be misplaced.’

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY-THREE
Insecurities
11 August 1332 – 8 July 1334​

‘I’m ugly,’ groused the girl.

‘You are nothing of the sort,’ countered her mother in a soothing voice.

‘You yourself said I was no beauty,’ Katarína muttered, ‘and you were right. I mean, look at this.’ She teased the wavy strands of hair around her ears. ‘I brush it every day and it still looks like this. I haven’t seen any other girl my age with hair this unruly, or this outlandish ginger colour.’

‘Your hair is lovely,’ said Sjätosláva, taking the brush and helping her daughter with it. When Katarína offered her mother a doubtful look in the mirror, Sjätosláva told her: ‘Truly. Tie it back in a couple of braids and it will behave itself.’

‘I can’t do that!’ Katarína shook her head. ‘If I put my hair back it will show off my cheekbones!’

‘And what’s wrong with your cheekbones, moja duška?’

Katarína threw her hands up in a futile gesture at the mirror. ‘They’re so gawky, Mother. Praksida’s aren’t like this! With these cheeks and this chin and this red hair—I look like a vixen!’

Her mother leaned close to her ear and told her confidentially: ‘Nonsense. Men like high cheekbones. They make you look more mature—more sophisticated.’

‘They do?’ asked Katarína.

‘Trust me,’ said her mother. ‘When you’re older, you’ll appreciate them.’

Katarína sighed. ‘I just wish I wasn’t… so mature yet. In some places.’

Her mother offered her a quizzical look.

‘I mean…’ Katarína explained, mortified, ‘my other hair.’

‘Kaťuša,’ her mother told her patiently, ‘all grown women have it.’

‘But… so much of it?’ asked Katarína, her voice thick with despair. ‘Mother, when I go swimming… I always keep my arms down and my legs closed… so the other girls don’t see me and laugh. None of them have as much as I do, not even the older ones! What if—? What if, when we’re married, Radomír sees it, and he’s repulsed by it?’

Sjätosláva told her daughter: ‘When my Babča was alive and I said the same thing to her, she told me the Lampsiōtēs women have always tended to be on the hirsute side. Be proud of it. It’s a mark of fertility. You’ll have lots and lots of children.’

Katarína gave her mother a shy little smile. It was good to talk to her like this… the sorts of things she couldn’t very well say to her guardian.

‘You are my daughter, and you are lovely. But you really shouldn’t fret so much about how you look,’ Sjätosláva cautioned. ‘It’s one thing to make yourself up decently, make a good impression on people. That’s only natural. But… if you go too far with it, it becomes vanity.’

‘I know, Mamka. But… did you see all the fancy silks and pearls and silver the ladies were wearing in the court today?’ asked Katarína longingly, half to herself. ‘I wonder if any of that would look good on me… I wonder if men would notice me if I wore something like that…’

​

Katarína blushed when she considered that she might have given too much away already, of why she wanted to be seen. Katarína had worked in the stables long enough to see the grooms there bare-armed and bare-chested. Adam’s-apples, broad shoulders, firm stomachs, muscular arms—the desire not only to see but to touch had only just blossomed in her, and put out its first delicate petals. And then there had been the time when Eugen, the groom she particularly fancied, had managed to bring one of the serving-maids, Dobrava, out of the kitchen into the loft for a little bit of privacy. Katarína knew that in Eugen’s eyes she was just a little girl—a baby sister who didn’t know anything. She didn’t want to be that. She had gone up stealthily after them.

Katarína flushed deeper, and her mouth felt dry as she remembered what she’d seen and heard. The discarded fabrics. The rustling of the hay, the laughter, the kisses. The creaking the slats of the loft. The twining of hands. Dobrava’s face, flushed and beaming up from under Eugen’s rippling shoulder. She’d been enjoying it. Dobrava hadn’t been gawky or frizzy or hairy. She was pretty.

Having escaped their notice, the thirteen-year-old had gone and lain in the hay after the two of them had finished, dressed and gone. She could still feel the warmth their bodies had left there. It seeped into her body, tingled across her shoulders, trickled down past the small of her back and tenderly spurred her thighs apart. She traced her hand down to the damp patch under where their bodies met.

She scented the fragrance of the apple… and found it sweet. Intoxicating.

But such were not the sort of recollections that Katarína could voice aloud. Not even to her mother.

~~~​

Prince Radomír Rychnovský stalked through the woods ahead of his father, some ways outside of Velehrad. Vojtech enjoyed the outdoors, and even though (much unlike his father) Radomír did prefer the company of others, he was quickly learning to love too the solitude and unspoiled majesty of the woods.

He cast a quick glance behind him, past the outline of his father in the shadow of the trees. Radomír had still just been trying to get used to the idea of his new younger sister Mislava, when his mother had again conceived and given birth to a younger brother, Želimír. He was very much so learning what it was to be a middle child now. But he resolved that he would not be overlooked as many middle children are.

Radomír was, in truth, a clever youngster. He was only nine years, but already he grasped more than the grown-ups gave him credit for. He listened to the tales and songs of Kaloján chrabrý in rapturous reverence. And he had also heard and marked the hushed intimations of hidden sins, of whispers and wicked shadows in his family’s past. He heard the wistfulness for better days gone by, in the sadness of the songsters and storytellers.

Radomír was still too young to intuit these things on any but a detached, abstract level. But he did grasp that something had happened in the family history… some sort of weakness had crept into the line in the years since. Despite the grandeur of the court, the greatness of Kaloján had somehow been forfeited. Despite the verdant trees and bushes and the calls of the birds which reached Radomír now—the manifold creatures and the abundant material riches with which God had blessed Veľká Morava—this land had somehow been lessened.

Radomír vowed that it would be restored. The Rychnovských would regain the true nobility of Kaloján. And Veľká Morava would prove itself in spirit a worthy partaker of the riches with which it was blessed.

Behind Radomír, Vojtech watched as his son strode ahead. They were getting near the place he had planned. One of his hunters had captured a live hind with an injured leg—and had released it on the king’s command somewhere around here. Vojtech had arranged it so they would come across the beast’s trail. He wanted to see what his son would do when he found it.

Soon enough, ere they had gone too far, the rustle of foliage and the quiver of movement stirred in the distance off to their left. The king was assured that it was the released hind. He watched Radomír to see what he would do.

The lad planted his feet squarely beneath him, tracked the motion of the animal with ear and eye, fetched an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow, drew and shot—free of any hesitation. His jaw was determined. His eye was clear and his aim was true. Vojtech could tell even as the boy loosed the arrow that it was a killing shot.

Vojtech rejoiced in his heart. His elder son, the one who stood next in line for the throne, would clearly not be one who settled for ‘less than’, or ‘good enough’. He was clearly a youngster who would demand the most of himself and of others. Mild and retiring Vojtech understood, from how assuredly he had made the shot at the hind, that his son would rule as a very different king than he was. But perhaps that would not be such a bad thing.

The king himself had acquired a new appreciation for the qualities valued in the družina. Though he had never truly possessed the boldness of a true družinnik, the truthfulness and the magnanimity which were the stuff of song and legend—these things were not beyond him. Radomír would complete the rest, howbeit his destiny lay not in ado with arms but rather in court politics.

‘Excellent shot, son,’ Vojtech pronounced as they approached the animal. Radomír’s arrow had buried itself deep in the neck of the wounded hind.

‘Thank you, Father,’ Radomír inclined his head.

‘Let’s carry this one back to the camp,’ his father picked the hind up by two of its legs and slung it over his shoulder.

Radomír kept pace with his father as they trudged back through the deer-trail to the clearing where the telds of the hunting-party stood. In the distance, Radomír could see the outline of the rampart walls of the forest forts around the old capital, which were now crisscrossed with scaffolding. Moravian corvées were hard at work over there raising them and improving the crenellations. The nine-year-old found himself thinking that a reliance on such improvements would not be a substitute for the boldness and forthrightness of the Moravian soul. This was something he would have to change.

‘Milord,’ said one of the aides-de-camp, who hailed from Silesia, to Vojtech. ‘May I have a word with you?’

The king checked in his step, set down the body of the hind, and told Radomír:

‘Take this, together with one of the men, to our teld. I will be there soon.’

Radomír nodded seriously and did as he was bidden. Vojtech turned to the aide-de-camp. ‘Well?’

‘There is news from the north, which I believe you ought to hear. The man who dishonoured you, and tried to have you murdered—Håkon of Stolp—is dead.’

Although he would have been ashamed to admit it, Kráľ Vojtech couldn’t quite repress a swelling, rising feeling of elation in his chest upon hearing this. He could well have forgiven Håkon for having slept with his wife, and also even for having tried to have him murdered… but the execution of Alexandrinē (for which he held Håkon primarily responsible) had been a bridge too far even for him. Though he would not have executed Håkon, and though he might not even have wished death upon him, he nevertheless heard the news of his death with satisfaction.

‘Thank you for informing me,’ said Vojtech.

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY-FOUR
Ihumen
14 February 1335 – 27 October 1335

‘Get that damn animal under control, Eugen!’

The groom, normally so blithe and bold, stepped timidly with bit and bridle toward the massive, eighteen-hand Arab bay, which lowered his head and snorted in an almost human derision. For a moment, Eugen’s eyes twitched to the outside of the stall where two of his fellow-grooms lay sprawled out on the ground, nursing fresh hoofprint-sized bruises where this particular animal had kicked them. Eugen really didn’t want to be joining them in such a state, but the stable-master had given him an order.

Eugen’s eyes came back to the devil-tempered creature, and shifted his feet to take an angled approach. The horse kept the side of his head turned toward Eugen and kept one of his evil eyes fixed on him no matter where he went. His hooves pawed at the loose straw beneath him and he let out yet another snort—this time, the tone was clearly one of warning. He wouldn’t put up with being approached much further.

Eugen trod back and forth in a cautious zigzag toward the bay, but the horse wasn’t fooled. The bay himself took steps to match, and man and equine circled each other slowly around the stall. With a sudden lunge Eugen tried to get the bridle over the bay’s head—but the horse was too fast for him. Like lightning the horse reared and arced, and out flashed one heavy shod hoof, which struck Eugen full on the forehead. He managed to keep his feet, but he stumbled out of the stall clutching a swelling, profusely-bleeding lump there.

Making matters worse, there were footsteps coming from outside the stables, and through his swimming vision shot through with rainbow circles of agony, Eugen beheld the form of the Kráľ himself.

‘Sire!’ exclaimed the stable-master. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Just wanted to see what all the commotion was,’ came the voice of the Kráľ from outside. He walked calmly inside and saw standing outside the far stall Eugen and the two other grooms who had been wounded by the animal inside—then cast the stable-master a questioning look.

‘It’s this new Arab stallion, milord. It’s of remarkably fine blood and breeding—but the thing is completely wild. None of the grooms have had any success in taming it.’

‘Let me have a look at him,’ Vojtech asked.

The stable-master shrugged eloquently, as if to say, ‘it’s your funeral’. But Vojtech stepped past into the stall where the bay was still standing, with total defiance and haughty contempt for his two-legged company written across every muscle.

Vojtech watched the horse warily, and stepped into the same trepid dance that his groom had done before getting kicked in the head. Well. At least here the Kráľ felt much more confident than he had at the latest feast in Praha.

It had all been remarkably embarrassing, not to have anything ready upon his tongue to say to the other guests there, or know how to make conversation with them. Facing people had always been a chore for him. Thankfully Burgomaster Svätoboj had been there to come to his rescue! The king had been truly grateful to Svätoboj for his assistance—as well as for his discretion afterward in not speaking to anyone about the incident. Svätoboj had proven himself a true friend that day.

This challenge was a bit different, but Vojtech felt he was much readier for it. He looked over the horse with curiosity, and the bay continued to regard him with scorn. He wondered how the animal might respond to a gentle approach. Using a soothing voice, shushing and clicking with his tongue, Vojtech reached up a hand toward the stallion’s nose.

The bay snorted and shook his head warningly, and the king backed off a pace. Again the two of them regarded each other warily. Evidently the bay had seen that the king had neither bridle nor bit in his hands, and the attitude of his position became more curious than hostile. Vojtech took one step forward, and then another. The bay made a sudden jolt to the side, but Vojtech was careful not to flinch or look away.

There was a single moment where the eye of horse met the eyes of man, and for that moment the two seemed to understand each other. The one understood that the other had not come to force or to dominate, but with peaceful intent; the other, understood that the first found it intolerable to be taken for a menial. In that moment, Vojtech made the final approach, and laid his hand on the bay’s mane. The horse rolled it head in a magnanimous way toward the king’s outstretched hand. Now, the two of them have an understanding.

The grooms and the stable-master looked on in shocked disbelief. Vojtech cleared his throat.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to take charge of this one personally.’

‘Certainly, sire.’

‘And his name… is Ihumen.’

~~~​

Vojtech and his new Arab mount, Ihumen, were inseparable from that point. The bay was still nigh unmanageable for practically anyone else, but with Vojtech the animal was agreeable—if not entirely biddable and docile. Vojtech, for his part, was happy to have such a spirited hot-blooded animal in his care, and rode with him whenever time allowed.

Vojtech rode out around Olomouc with Ihumen, with Radomír following behind him on a palfrey. Together they looked toward where the new improvements to the castle of Olomouc were just being finished. It was with pleasure that the king had received news that similar touches had been put on the forest fortifications outside of Velehrad, but these were ones that he could see and take pride in in person. The angled ramparts of the Olomouc fortress had been strengthened, and behind these the bastions had been elevated into tall cavaliers, the better to add depth to defending fire from the walls. Any enemy would have to think hard, and more than twice over, before besieging this city!

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ asked the king of his son.

‘Thick walls and high towers are good to have,’ Radomír spoke thoughtfully, ‘but the spirit that is within them matters more. Great walls did not defend Jericho; those who believed and hoped in the Lord conquered that city with a single trumpet-blast.’

‘A trumpet-blast. Is that your, um… tactical assessment, son?’

Radomír gave his father a wry grin. ‘No—I know better than to argue tactics with you, Ocko.’

Vojtech smiled. ‘Very carefully put. I suppose it was careful words like that that helped you get Pravdomila out of that scrape in town.’

‘That, and some well-placed fists.’

Gruša’s daughter had been quite grateful to her younger cousin for the assistance, and a fast bond had formed between the two Rychnovský children. Vojtech did his best to hide his worries from Radomír, but still he couldn’t help but cast a thoughtful glance at his son. He wasn’t entirely sure that Pravdomila’s interest in him was entirely sisterly in nature. Radomír had already been promised to quiet, shy, dutiful Katarína, and he didn’t want that particular relationship placed in jeopardy. He relied heavily upon the loyalty of the descendants of Čestislava Pavelková.

Katarína Sjätopolkovná, in fact, had already come of age—and she was already more than a match for any woman living when it came to running a household. Everything she organised with thrift and purpose, and few and rare were the servants who could keep up with her on their own. Although she wouldn’t be a great one for small talk or diplomatic niceties, Vojtech hoped that his son would ultimately come to appreciate what a capable, careful and frugal wife he was getting.

‘And what do you think of Katarína, Mírek?’

Kráľ Vojtech kept a careful eye on his son as he asked this, looking for any sign that his loyalties between the two young women might be divided. But Radomír’s face took on a quiet, thoughtful look as he told his father:

‘She’s nice.’

‘Nice?’

‘Well…’ Radomír elaborated, ‘she is pretty. Her cooking is amazing. But she’s always busy with something—she doesn’t talk to me very much. And sometimes, she kind of… looks at me… a little too hard.’

Here Radomír blushed and fidgeted uncomfortably with the reins of his mount.

Vojtech tried his hardest to suppress a grin—he didn’t want his son to think he was laughing at him. But Katarína was already looking, and looking ‘hard’, was she? Good. Let her. That was a healthy sign. If the past year or two of growth in Radomír was any indication, she wouldn’t find her prospective groom disappointing in any physical respect.

And Vojtech knew his son well enough to know, or at least be able to guess, that his discomfort at being regarded with such clear interest by a young lady was not evidence of any great dislike of the lady. Quite the contrary! Radomír wouldn’t have gotten so flustered if he didn’t like her. He was just at the age where he was starting to notice and be drawn to women… but the fairer sex was still a deep and daunting mystery to him. Katarína’s gaze lay outside of his control, or knowledge of what lay behind it. Yes, Vojtech could very well see how that might disturb the peace of a boy like Radomír. But… give it time. Vojtech was reassured, for the moment, of his son’s filial commitment to the family’s plans.

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY-FIVE
Gout and Gullibility
13 November 1335 – 19 August 1337

‘Not again! Not again!’ Gruša murmured in horror. Her hands worked feverishly, but to little avail.

Agrafena Rychnovský, who had already failed to save her father, was now failing to save her brother. Said brother, Kráľ Vojtech, lay upon the cot where she was operating. The arthritic swelling that had appeared on the inside of his left foot had spread all the way up his left leg, such that it gruesomely resembled a cooked sausage. The other leg, too, was beginning to swell in a similar manner.

She had tried everything to restore the balance of the humours in his legs, including leeches, topical ointments, prayers and incense over the affected area. But, far from having relieved his suffering, she had worsened it—and possibly also endangered his life. Thank God at least that the sleeping-draught her assistant had administered was working, and he was not conscious for this.

There was only one remedy left to try, though she had been loath to resort to it. With trembling hands Agrafena reached for a band of linen to use as a tourniquet, and then for the surgical saw that lay on the table at her side.

‘I’m sorry, brother,’ she murmured, with tears in her eyes. ‘Truly I am.’

She cinched the linen tight just above his left knee, felt to make sure there was no pulse to be felt below, and then placed the saw.

~~~

At this time, the Queen, Lodovica, had only just been delivered of another child—a daughter, Volimíra. And the year before that she had given birth to a son, Levoslav.

The Queen had borne herself stoically upon hearing of her husband’s gout and her sister-in-law’s failed treatment of it. Although she stayed at his side in sympathy and fellow-suffering during the weeks which passed after the operation, she kept her reactions firmly in check when it came to Gruša.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Radomír. ‘Aunt Agrafena’s incompetent ministrations killed my grandfather, and now they look likely to kill my father as well. How come you don’t punish her, strip her of the honour she enjoys? She clearly isn’t fit to hold this responsibility.’

‘Mírek,’ his mother answered him gently, ‘for one thing: as the consort, it isn’t my place. The appointment and replacement of the court physician is a matter for the king, and the king alone. Second: Gruša has served your kin for many years—she even looked after you when you were young. When it comes to family, sometimes you simply have to give them the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Forgive and forget?’ asked Radomír.

‘Not necessarily forget,’ said his mother. ‘And God knows I wouldn’t blame you if, when you rule, you come to a decision to dismiss a servitor for such a wrong. But I also know your father wouldn’t have you mar your soul with grudges and suspicions over the wrongs that others do, knowing or unknowing.’

Radomír looked doubtful. His mother clasped his hands.

‘Worry not,’ Lodovica told her eldest son—not altogether convincingly. ‘Your father will be well again, even without a leg. And I, for one, have no doubts about you. God has blessed you with an ever clear and straightforward gaze. You’ve always known your way.’

Radomír stood for a moment in thought, as his mother clasped his hands.

‘What is it, Mírek?’

Radomír hesitated, and then blushed bright pink. If he was going to start giving family members the benefit of the doubt, he might as well start now.

‘It’s—it’s about Kaťuša, Mother.’

Lodovica’s face brightened into a grin. ‘Your bride-to-be?’

‘Yes. It’s just—she’s… um… following me.’

When his mother raised her eyebrows, Radomír flushed more deeply and lowered his eyes.

‘Like… when I bathe. Or when I train with the blade. She just gets this… look in her eyes, and I kind of feel like… like a fat juicy rooster being eyed by a hungry fox.’

‘Well, I should think that would be flattering,’ Lodovica laughed.

Radomír fell silent. Could his mother truly understand?

It was flattering—he couldn’t deny it!—that his intended hungered for him in such a way. But who can know the fear that the spear bears, in the approach to the distaff? There was also a terror, an awe, which gripped his heart and squeezed down hard, forcing him into palpitations and sweats, and strange stirrings in his loins which subsumed his will. The sheer depth of the desire in Kaťuša’s green eyes as they roved over his still-unready adolescent body frightened him—like she wanted to swallow him whole, reach into the depths of his heart, dissolve him into herself. And—this was the part which scared Radomír the most!—there was a part of him that felt the same want for her. Some insistent part of Radomír, answering to instinct and to primordial desire, wanted to rush forward and leap straight into her maelstrom and glory in his own oblivion. The same stirrings of the loins that made him shiver, made him feel like flying, sent his will spiralling out of his control—those were the same which longed for the girl who looked at him like that. Even if touching her, and allowing himself to be touched by her, overwhelmed him, drowned him, or consumed him like a fire—still Radomír longed for it, ached for it in the region below his stomach. But such a want—was as yet beyond his capacity to express in words.

Thinking better of her laughter, the Queen spoke again—gently. ‘My son, there’s no rush. You may not be ready for such things just yet. But when you are—you must trust both yourself and Katarína. Trust is important in any marriage.’

Even as she said it, it felt rather hypocritical to say. How could she encourage him to trust someone like Katarína, who was so closely connected to Praksida’s court and the Pannonian ambitions of the Koceľuk line? Though she was being raised here, it was no secret that her mother still visited her frequently. And she was well-placed to assist in any schemes that Praksida might be minded to effect on the Crown.

And it felt doubly hypocritical given the recent revelations by Vladimír Mikulčický that someone was seeking the life of Agrafena’s elder son, Ruslav.

Yet this was her son, her firstborn, whom she loved dearly. Lodovica understood him better than he knew. Though he could not speak it, she knew of her son’s first shy, tender, idealistic attraction to Katarína—whose more mature hungers quite justifiably frightened him. She did not want to discourage an infatuation that with time, and with the intimacy that comes with marriage, might take root and branch into something stronger and more enduring.

‘Yes, Mother,’ he replied to her. ‘I’ll try to keep it in mind.’

Lodovica watched him depart with a thoughtful look. Already she had watched her two stepdaughters grow up and mature into promising young women. (Kostislava had come of age recently, as well.) But there was something different about watching one’s own child work through growing pains and puppy love like this.

~~~​

In his stall, the tall and mettlesome bay Ihumen grew restless.

The man whom he had allowed to approach him, the one whom he considered as a ‘friend’, had been missing. Several days had gone by, and Vojtech had not come out to ride him or keep him company in the field. Something must be wrong.

With pleasure Ihumen recalled the recent journey to a forest to the north and east. He recalled with pride how Vojtech had dealt with some other of the two-legged kind that he had found there, and how his displeasure had turned to joy when the men had offered to train him at the bow. It had gratified proud Ihumen to watch his friend display and further hone his skill.

It was therefore alarming to Ihumen, when suddenly his friend appeared to him in his stall. One of his two legs was missing from the knee down, and had been replaced by a branch of wood! He had suffered, it seemed, a grievous injury of some kind. Knowing his friend, it had likely been in some savage struggle with some mighty foe. Ihumen hoped that Vojtech had triumphed. The fact that he was here, though, and standing—not quite sturdily, but standing all the same—was a testament to his force of will.

Ihumen lowered his muzzle and gave Vojtech’s shoulder a sympathetic bump. His friend was in pain. Whatever he could do to alleviate Vojtech’s misery, he would do.

‘That’s it, Ihumen. That’s a good lad.’

Vojtech fed the horse some oats from his palm, and gently led him out of the stables. Though Ihumen was itching for action after too long kept in his stall, he kept pace with his friend out of respect for his injury.

Vojtech turned Ihumen over to a certain two-legged one he’d never seen before. The horse stiffened his neck proudly and at first would not look at this stranger, but Vojtech gently assuaged him and assured him of the stranger’s benign intentions. Perhaps humouring this two-legged one might not be so bad after all, if his friend was certain of him.

As it turned out, the human gave Ihumen plenty to do, and numerous opportunities to show his mettle. Ihumen set himself to each and every challenge he was given—and, proud beast that he was, he settled for nothing less than conquest of each and every one. Vojtech looked on with pleasure, and Ihumen was pleased in turn.

Upon another occasion, Vojtech brought to him a different two-legged one. A younger one. A female. Ihumen was more doubtful of her than she was of the man. But she had a certain bearing about her, a mettle that mirrored Ihumen’s own.

‘He’s beautiful,’ said Praksida. ‘Though it looks like he’s not willing to trust just anyone. Are you sure it’s alright?’

‘You have a good eye for horses, Praksida,’ Vojtech told her. ‘I’m sure that Ihumen will make an exception in your case.’

After several paces around the yard and a good stiff ride around castle and town bearing her upon his back, Ihumen had to agree. This ‘Praksida’ had a lighter touch than Vojtech, and was less of a burden. At first he very nearly held her in contempt. But then she had brought him to a gallop as they paced by the Morava, and spurred him to a long leap—confident in both herself and in him. Ihumen had to grudgingly admit that Praksida did understand the four-legged kind. Perhaps she was deserving of respect after all.

And then came the day of great sorrow, when his friend Vojtech did not come out at all. Ihumen never saw him again. Evidently his injuries had been too severe. The loss of the old friend weighed heavily in the bay’s heart.

But when he left Olomouc, he left with Praksida. He would heed no other. Even if death had claimed Vojtech, at least he would have this new friend to stand by him.

 

[Revan86]

At this point, I believe it is traditional to post some maps!

EUROPE AT THE END OF THE REIGN OF VOJTECH 2. RYCHNOVSKÝ

The Byzantine Empire is now the undisputed master of the Caucasus, even though they do not control Constantinople (which is part of the Despotate of Thessaly). Epirus and Pontus are still independent despotates as well.

Scotland is now close to becoming a pan-Celtic empire. Francia has completely fragmented, with East Francia reasserting itself independently. Frisia has lost a lot of its former holdings (take that, nudists!), and Luxembourg has emerged as an independent power. Those guys need to have an eye kept on 'em...

The hell is Delhi doing in the western steppes?! At any rate, we can start to see how Russia is forming up, or not. Galicia-Volhynia on the one side and Ruthenia on the other, with White Rus' caught in the middle. Independent Karaite states of Vladimir and Mordvinia are still hanging on for dear life in the north.

The chilly north is beginning to be relevant to my game now that I've got that holding in Karelia. The East Geats now control most of Scandinavia, with Sápmi in the north being the other major contender for control. Pomerania and Småland continue to hold on to bits and pieces of Sweden--a title which will end up going to Visby.​

 

[Revan86]

INTERLUDE XV.
Revival and Russophilia
25 February 2021

The letters in their tall monach styling stood out boldly upon the page. The first—the one which headed—stood resplendent on its own. The great ‘П’ looped twice and twisted in fanciful ornate knots around itself in a sunset glow of cinnabar, topped with the gleam of bright gilt laid immaculately upon an egg-white base.

Around the page stood great pillars which likewise swirled in high patterns with bright reds and golds and a delicate copper lichen-green, topped with ornate onion-bulb heads reminiscent of the steeples of Russian churches. Martlets in dark lapis with their wings and tails streaking behind them plummeted with exquisite grace down the margins between whirling leaves and petals of flowers along vines, accompanied by the figures of angels. Along the bottom rolled a wondrous hillside in the same lichen shade that danced along the columns and arches with boars, deer, other gilt-and-ochre beasts of the hunt on the run… several armoured družinniki giving chase… and a heraldic lion likewise stood proud with its claws outstretched, in the same careful gilt that adorned the heading letter. Many of the students in Ed Grebeníček’s classroom gazed up at the late-medieval illumination (or rather, the EnerGrafix slide thereof) in utter awe of its beauty.

‘The Pôvod Radomíra,’ Grebeníček told his appreciative class. ‘Also called the Chronicle of Tórbrant. Commissioned and completed in 1379, it is the only medieval Moravian monastic history to be preserved intact and complete within a single manuscript. The other complete histories we have from this time—Radomír hrozný’s Rozprávky z leta dávno preč, for example—come down to us in fragments and commentaries preserved in different manuscripts.’

‘So this one’s lucky to still exist intact, huh?’ asked Ľubomír Sviták.

‘Very lucky,’ Grebeníček said. ‘Now, what else can we tell about this manuscript here?’

‘Clearly Radomír 4. spared no expense,’ remarked Petronila Šimkovičová wryly. ‘That book must have cost him a small fortune to commission!’

‘It probably did, at that,’ Jolana Hončová answered Petra. ‘Radomír’s primary aim during his rule was to restore his family’s honour and to return Moravia to a more God-pleasing spiritual state. This book was one of the ways he hoped to accomplish that. I’m sure he thought the sum of gold he spent on it to have been well-spent.’

‘Another thing I notice,’ said Dalibor Pelikán, ‘is the presence of Russian motifs—the lettering style and the onion domes along the top.’

‘Good observation,’ noted Grebeníček. ‘Why is this significant?’

‘Under Radomír 4.’s reign, Moravia entered into long alliances with White Rus’ and Mozyřian Rus’ which lasted for hundreds of years,’ said Dalibor. ‘He adored Russian poetry, Russian manners, Russian dress and Russian cuisine. He was versant in the East Slavic tongue, and took care to foster close friendships with Russian nobles and even merchants.’

‘Ahh, yes,’ Grebeníček’s moustache twitched upwards. ‘the daring rescue of Evstafii Bräčislavič of Aľkéniki from the wrath of the Galician Knez’! Nice little bit of propaganda, that. And it certainly had the desired effect in improving relations with White Rus’.’

‘Probably Radomír saw an advantage in allying with two powerful principalities to his east,’ Dalibor went on. ‘By that time, the expansion of Orthodox Italy had stalled, with a rebellion in Ancona as well as Venice and the Papacy putting up a stiff resistance to the Cisalpine Despots. And the East Franks had—after a long subjugation to Francia—again become something of a threat.’

‘I wonder if his motives weren’t a bit more… internal,’ Petronila interjected. ‘Bohodar 4.’s war in England and the religious upheavals of the Čističe had significantly weakened the authority of the Kráľ, and the Silesian and Nitran lords in particular managed to extract significant concessions of autonomy from the Crown. That meant greater territorial expansion for Moravia, but it also meant that the Kráľ exerted less and less control. Revenues were down, risks of revolt were up.’

‘Right, but what does that have to do with the alliances with the Rus’?’ asked Dalibor.

‘Well,’ Petronila said carefully, ‘Radomír needed some way to counterbalance the power of his voivodes and kniežatá. And he had an alliance already with the Koceľová lady of Siget through marriage to her sister. It stands to reason that he would appeal to his Orthodox brethren in the east as a way to strengthen his domestic hand.’

‘Both very plausible analyses,’ affirmed Ed Grebeníček. ‘No doubt Radomír, astute diplomat that he was, would have taken both foreign and domestic aspects into consideration. And of course there was the more… personal aspect to his Russophilia—Kráľovná Katarína herself.’

‘But…’ said Živana, ‘she was Carpatho-Rusin, like me. She wasn’t truly… you know, Russian-Russian.’

Grebeníček tilted his head. ‘And what do you consider yourself, Ms. Biľaková?’

Živana considered, and when she spoke, she spoke with care. ‘Certain members of my family… like my great-grandfather… did take great pride in calling themselves “Russians”. Having fought in the BSV, he felt that the revolutionaries in Russia proper had his back, could truly be trusted like brothers. But… isn’t that all something of a fiction?’

20th century ‘Russian’ partizans in the BSV​

Grebeníček shrugged. ‘Feudal retainers, tribal alliances… there isn’t really that much difference between the ways in which they counted loyalty and the way your great-grandfather did. How do you think the Koceľovci thought of themselves?’

‘Loyal to Moravia, first of all,’ said Živana with care, after some consideration, ‘but also probably deeply aware of their East Slavic roots, their having belonged to the Rus’ in antiquity, and their service to the Magyars. Probably there was a bit of stubbornness in it, too. Maybe they didn’t want to be considered too like the Bijelahrvatskići, who assimilated with their Slovak neighbours.’

Grebeníček opened his palm. ‘There you are. Certainly there was a great deal of sheer contrary gumption in the mountain-folk. They didn’t want to be Magyars, they didn’t want to be Moravians, they didn’t want to be Poles and they didn’t want to be Galicians. Calling themselves “Russians” was one way they set themselves apart, even at this time.’

‘But… about Katarína…’

‘Yes, about her. Well, it turns out that there are some documents on which she signs her own name, not as Катарина but as Екатерина—which is a decidedly Mozyřian affectation. And also… see here on this page…’

The EnerGrafix slide shifted slightly to one side. There was a brief bracket of text, in the same ustav style as the main text within the illumination, on the page preceding.

Вэноване моей милованей Катюше​

‘“Dedicated to my beloved Kaťuša”,’ Živana read.

‘Yes,’ answered Grebeníček. ‘Honestly, given the great importance that Radomír 4. set on his Chronicle, this dedication strikes me as… well, perhaps not quite as personal as Bohodar 3.’s poem to Árpád Czenzi, but certainly touching in a similar way. And, considering that Katarína bore Radomír ten children, one must consider their marriage to have been a fairly happy one. No doubt Radomír’s love of Russian culture owed itself, in no small part, to the affection he bore for his wife. Is there anything else that’s significant about this manuscript…?’

Ladislav Čič spoke up. ‘The weapons and armour that the hunters are using… those are definitely later medieval. And they’re in the Western style, not the Russian.’

‘True. Radomír did not reject the innovations that his father and grandfather bequeathed him—he built on them. Fortress construction, artillery, cavalry tactics, personal armour and weapons, logistics… being at the crossroads of the East and the West proved to be a great boon for Moravia, at least where technology was concerned.’

Grebeníček clicked the EnerGrafix presentation to the next slide. On it there was the likeness of an oil painting depicting the imprisonment of Ctislava Mikulčicková. He then went on:

‘Later historians credit Radomír 4. with bringing Moravia back from a period of spiritual decline and decadence, even though his methods for dealing with sedition, revolt and intrigues could be every bit as heavy-handed as Bohodar 4.’s were—if not more so. On the one hand, he dealt the decisive blow in the centuries-long political power struggle between the Rychnovských and the Mojmírovci, putting an end to any ambitions the latter might have had for taking back the Moravian crown. On the other hand, however, he essentially handed Višehrad to the growing Moldavian kingdom, and set Nový Sadec at liberty. Jewish historians tend to remember Radomír 4. fondly as a “good king” who looked after their interests, on account of this particular move. Nitrans, however… not so much.’

Grebeníček paused for a moment.

‘The fourth Kráľ Radomír was, along with Kaloján chrabrý and later Róbert, one of the most dynamic and forceful Moravian kings, possessed of certain traits which would easily earn the epithet of “Great” in other contexts. Yet Radomír would not be given such a cognomen. As the Chronicle makes clear, he wanted his achievements, formidable as they were, to stand on their own.’

 

[Revan86]

Quick reminder: at the behest of @coz1, I want to remind all readers to go and vote in the 2022 YAYA thread. Vote while you still can!

 

[Revan86]

The Reign of Radomír 4. Rychnovský, Kráľ of Veľká Morava

TWENTY-SIX
An Able Tongue
3 June 1338 – 27 August 1340

Radomír fitted the cloak around his shoulders and examined himself in the mirror. The young lad found to his satisfaction that he wore the emblem of office well, and with authority. Although he had taken the oath of kingship and been consecrated with the chrism in Velehrad the year before, shortly after his father’s untimely death, today would be the first day he would rule as king in his own right, rather than having his mother exercise rule in his place as regent.

Radomír did not resent his mother in the slightest. She had been a great help to him in those first years. Lodovica was a better-than-able steward of the royal coffers and manager of the royal household—perhaps it was her Swabian blood that gave her a deserved reputation for parsimony—and she had spent enough time in Olomouc to hold her own in Moravian. In addition, she conducted all her affairs with all the openness and goodwill one could expect from someone of her moral stature.

Even so, Radomír knew that the loss of his father had caused her a deep and abiding grief which she didn’t allow herself to show. She put on a bold front and a smile for the court; the pain in her eyes was visible only to those who knew her best. Now, the son could take some of the burden off of his mother’s shoulders, and allow her space to grieve in her own way the death of her husband.

He only hoped that his mother would weather the loss with greater grace than his grandmother had. Pribislava lived still—though old age had treated her bitterly. She drank as heavily as she ever did… and not only that, but she had taken to voicing her doubts about God to some of the wrong people. Radomír had been able to keep that secret for her so far, but he didn’t want his grandmother to suffer any more of the opprobrium of the Church than she already did. At least Lodovica still went to Church, still prayed before the ikonostasis, still lit the candles and trimmed the wicks. If Kráľ Radomír had any say in the matter, so it would remain.

Radomír adjusted his royal mantle one last time, took a deep breath, and strode out into the corridor. In a few short hours he would be the undisputed master of Olomouc, liege lord of Moravia Proper, and sovereign of Moravia the Great.

‘Mírko!’ called a familiar voice.

Radomír turned and grinned as he saw Pravdomila coming toward him, her skirts gathered in her hands and the silk ribbons of her long hat streaming merrily behind her.

‘Big day,’ she told him as she cuffed him on the shoulder.

‘It is,’ Radomír answered easily, the tension he had scarcely allowed himself to feel now visibly ebbing out of him by the elbows and knees. Around Pravdomila he could be himself without any fear of judgement; she’d always been there for him.

‘Know when the party from Siget will be coming?’

‘Shouldn’t be until the second of August. The messenger from Siget arrived from Kroměříž this morning, saying they might be here a couple of days late.’

‘Stay of execution, then,’ Pravdomila smirked. ‘Oh look, the groom’s blushing!’

‘Stop it.’

‘Ha,’ Pravdomila chuckled. ‘Still got it bad for her, huh? Hope Kaťuša knows how lucky she is.’

She said it lightly, without any hidden meaning, but even in those few words there was something that caused Radomír to flush deeper. He’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t toyed with the idea of Pravdomila as his wife. As king he would be within his rights to marry where he chose, prior agreements or no. And it was true: Pravdomila understood him, made him laugh, even spurred on his nobler instincts. But even his fifteen-year-old heart understood the difference between her and Kaťuša.

Kaťuša—so quiet and taciturn, but so vigorous, so intense—! He still remembered the sight of her busy in the kitchen, or cleaning the hall, or minding the storerooms… He remembered noticing the curves that filled out her gown and swelled beneath her apron. But then she’d turn her eyes on him and he’d feel an almost physical wave of heat wash over him, making his heart tremble and flutter.

‘It’s been three years since she went back home,’ Radomír considered. ‘What if she’s changed?’

‘Changed for the better, I’d hope,’ Pravdomila answered airily. ‘God willing, she’s picked up a bit more pluck than she had. She’s always been such a timid creature.’

Radomír might well have demurred on that point, though he didn’t do so aloud. The first time Katarína had come to Olomouc she’d tried to make him her pet. Despite Pravdomila being as close as she was to him, he still didn’t have any strong desire for her to know about that particular episode. And, it was true, a lot had changed since then.

After the coronation ceremony that day, the following four days seemed to pass by in a blur. Radomír remembered little of it except a feeling of light-headedness and giddy anticipation when he considered that he would see Katarína again—this time as a bride. But he did remember, perfectly well, the day that the bridal party entered the courtyard.

It was high summer and the sky was crystal clear. Three women, the representatives of the noble Koceľuk line, were accompanied by a stout contingent of axe-bearing Rusin retainers. The bride’s mother, Sjätosláva, led the party, mounted on a palfrey. Then there was her elder daughter—Kňažná Praksida Sjätopolkovná, liege lady of Siget. She was clad, as was her wont, in a long tunic and a helmet, to display her military prowess—and she rode on Ihumen, Radomír’s father’s old horse. And lastly…

There was Katarína. Rather than being clad in a homespun gown and an apron, as had been her wont when she was living in Olomouc, now she was clad in a fine linen gown pinned at the shoulders, with a hem embroidered in blue and red. She had a wreath of fragrant rosemary boughs wound in her red hair. Radomír felt a sudden warmth rise in his chest at the sight of her. The three years since he had last seen her had been good to her: her prominent cheekbones, her narrow jawline and her long, slender neck together contrived to give her a refined and elegant poise, an air of maturity that even her elder sister didn’t possess. But she still would not lift her eyes. Radomír had no way of knowing from seeing her how she felt upon this occasion. Was she anxious? Elated? Frightened? A mixture of all three, as Radomír was? How was he to tell?

After they had dismounted and the grooms had taken their mounts and belongings within, the three ladies stepped forward to greet the new king.

‘Slava Ísusu Christu,’ courtesied Sjätosláva. ‘I hope your Majesty is well?’

‘Very well, thank you, ma’am,’ Radomír answered her. ‘Glory to Jesus Christ. It’s a pleasure to see you, and I pray God the rest of your travels were easy.’

‘Once we got past Kroměříž ourselves, the rest of the way was easy,’ Sjätosláva said. ‘Thank you, Kráľ. Of course you know my daughters.’

‘Slava Ísusu Christu, Praksida,’ Radomír bowed. Then, again: ‘Slava Ísusu Christu, Katarína.’

Praksida happily returned the new king’s greeting, and Katarína did so much more quietly, head still slightly bowed. Her high, fair cheeks took on a rosy hue.

‘This is a happy occasion,’ Sjätosláva went on. ‘It is my dearest wish that it may bind the fortunes of the Rychnovský and Koceľuk families together in peace and amity.’

At last Katarína lifted her head and her grey eyes met Radomír’s. At that moment, it was like a bolt of thunder struck between them. Before, the regard of Katarína had troubled and disconcerted Radomír. It still did. But now, he found the warmth of that gaze to be strangely welcome. He found himself wondering how he would be able to live daily within reach of her—would it not be too distracting?

One of the Carpathian retainers of the Koceľuk party came before the king and knelt, holding up in one hand a glass wine-bottle, and in the other hand his own axe. Radomír reached out his hand and touched the axe. He knew of this custom—to touch the bottle would supposedly bring ill luck upon him.

‘Come. The priest is waiting.’

Katarína allowed her mother and sister to accompany her into the church, followed by Radomír and his kinsmen. There followed the laying of crowns and the exchange of vows and rings. A bowl of soup was given to them, and Radomír and Katarína drank from it with the same spoon. The šafár came forward at the end of the ceremony, and smashed a plate at the feet of the new bride and groom. With a gleam of mischief in her eye, Katarína nudged her new husband with her elbow as she grabbed a broom. Radomír did the same, and the two of them efficiently swept up all the sherds of the plate and gathered them together in a single pile, with not a single one left lying on the ground.

It boded well for a couple who could sweep up their plate so neatly. ‘They’ll get along quite well together,’ commented Pravdomila.

Daaaaayumn. Just putting a ring on it gets me a +72 opinion bonus--no seduction necessary?!

~~~​

‘You look happy, Mother,’ Katarína said.

‘I truly wasn’t expecting the new Koroľ to be so… gracious,’ Sjätosláva remarked. ‘Do you know the problems we’ve been having in Siget with the mills? Radomír has already sent corvées, expert carpenters and materials from Moravia proper to Maramoroš, to help repair them. And I think I know whom I have to thank for that.’

‘Me?’ asked Katarína.

‘Well, I’m sure he’s not doing all this on the account of this old lady alone,’ Sjätosláva smiled knowingly. ‘He must have a motive far closer to him, Kaťuša.’

‘He’s done a lot for me, too,’ Katarína replied.

‘I’ll bet he has,’ Sjätosláva replied. ‘I haven’t seen you this contented in a long time.’

Katarína Sjätopolkovná had to admit to herself, the past four months had been more than enjoyable. Managing the Kráľ’s household turned out to be natural and easy for the new Kráľovná. She already knew from long experience where all the stores were, as well as what supplies and equipment were needed in the kitchens, pantries, stables, coops, weaving-rooms and cellars. The servants all knew her as well, too, so she didn’t have to be too hard on them. And she knew how to get the best prices for provisions and tools in town. These tasks were far from new to her.

What was new and fresh and exciting to Katarína was the bedchamber. As winter set in with its snows and cold and shorter days, the new Kráľovná got to relish more and more of her time there. Embracing an imaginary Eugen (or some other, or two or three) couldn’t hold a candle to bedding a real man: the one whom she could call hers. In their first few nights, she had been ashamed of her awkward and unruly body, and she had insisted on Radomír putting out the candles before making love to her. But now she took relish in sharing her lavishly-upholstered crevice, letting Radomír’s adoring tongue and fingers linger to soothe her pulsing, throbbing ache before he plunged inside.

‘Wait—’ Sjätosláva took her younger daughter’s face in her hands and turned it toward the light. Examining her glowing cheeks with care, a broad grin spread slowly across her face. ‘He has done a lot for you, hasn’t he? And you married only four months!’

‘What do you mean?’ Katarína asked.

‘I mean, praise be to God, that I’ll be a grandmother again soon,’ Sjätosláva told her fondly. ‘I know the signs. Looks like the old Lampsiōtēs blessing has held true for you!’

‘Praise be to God!’ Katarína grinned back.

‘Now, Kaťuša,’ her mother’s voice grew stern, ‘you must take greater heed of yourself now. You can’t carry on at the same pace you’ve done hitherto. Let the servants do more of the work.’

‘Really, Mamka,’ Katarína recoiled, ‘I’m not about to let myself be treated like an invalid, pregnant or not! I still have my duties, I can still perform them.’

‘You are bearing within you a second beating heart,’ her mother chided her. ‘That is the duty to which you must apply yourself now.’

Katarína opened her mouth to argue further, but thought better of it and bowed her head. ‘Yes, Mother.’

~~~​

Katarína was nowhere close to being a disobedient child, and for some time she did abide by her mother’s wishes and restrained her workload as the fact of her pregnancy became known. But being as used as she was to activity and liking to feel useful, she rather chafed under these restrictions. She sometimes went and helped wash or mend simply for want of something simple to occupy her hands—something to keep her mind off the queasiness that came over her even when she smelled something perfectly ordinary and innocuous, like turnips.

It was at this point that Katarína first felt one disadvantage of being the older partner in marriage. Radomír observed her discomfort and thought that what Katarína needed was a bit of levity in her life. And so he had gone out and dug up some dusty old Anglo-Saxon tome of riddles that had belonged to an ancestor of his, and had at once started rattling off some of the more ribald examples for her benefit.

‘Mírek, please,’ an exasperated Katarína fumed, ‘leave me alone.’

‘What—? Kaťuša, why—?’

‘You nincompoop,’ Katarína exploded at him, ‘if you can’t truly make yourself useful to me, at least don’t bother me with this wretched idle doggerel!’

The words had scarcely left her mouth, and she’d scarcely begun storming off, than the regret sank in. The look of bewilderment and hurt on her husband’s face beardless face had reproached her more deeply than any reply in words he might have made. Here he was trying again to please her—knowing how much she enjoyed their nightly romps in the sheets, he tried to find riddles that might appeal to her lewder side. Clumsy and immature as it was, when she thought about it properly, Katarína thought it actually rather touching.

When he came to their chambers later that night, Radomír sat at the foot of their bed with an entirely different book in his hands.

‘Kaťuša, I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I know I shouldn’t have bothered you in the middle of your work.’

‘No—husband,’ Katarína told him, ‘I’m the one who should apologise. You meant well. I just couldn’t see it at the time. What’s that you’ve got there?’

‘Hm? Oh,’ Radomír held up the volume he’d brought in. ‘It’s ’Abû Naṣr Muḥammad al-Fârâbî—also from the old family library. I thought you might be in the mood for something a little more… thoughtful.’

Katarína sat up and twined her arms warmly around her husband’s shoulders. ‘That’s sweet, Mírek.’

Although the two of them didn’t make it that far through the Neoplatonic expositions of the Second Teacher, Katarína still nevertheless found herself pleased by her husband’s kindness and support… as well as a dozen other smaller ones that Radomír undertook for her through her pregnancy: extra pillows and cushions, foot and ankle rubs, medicinal brews to soothe the stomach and ease aches (behind which, no doubt, lay the wisdom of his mother Lodovica).

It was in the middle of one of Radomír’s foot rubs that Katarína felt something stir in her. She found herself unable to look away from Mírek’s still-beardless face. The fantasy of love that had captivated her from her youth had always been Eugen and his hayloft tryst with Dobrava. But now a new image—the one of Radomír carefully massaging her swollen ankles, intent only on her relief—took root in her mind. Eugen had been helping himself to a willing girl; Radomír was helping her. It was clear to her now which light was brighter—but only after she’d let herself be dazzled by it.

‘Radomír?’

‘Mm?’

‘Could you go a little higher…?’

 

[Midnite Duke]

I am finally caught up. Thank you for all of your amazing updates. I did not know which is the most mind blowing, the quantity or the quality. At 42, King Vojtech II is your youngest character to die in quite some time with 14yo Radomir IV, your first regency in quite some time. I feel that the game fairly represents the number of incestuous relationships in the Middle Ages. With the increase in population and better transportation, incest probably has declined every century since man first walked on Earth. Rural settings probably produced more incestuous relationships than urban due to fewer choices. I wonder how many times a brother/sister (or other combination) left their home and arrived in a new community as a couple or money was sent home for a sister to join her brother and she arrives as a mail-order bride. I went down many rabbit holes in search of places, foods and translations. What was the poisonous berry named beauty?

 

[Revan86]

I am finally caught up. Thank you for all of your amazing updates. I did not know which is the most mind blowing, the quantity or the quality.

Very high praise indeed! Thank you, @Midnite Duke!

At 42, King Vojtech II is your youngest character to die in quite some time with 14yo Radomir IV, your first regency in quite some time.

Yeah. In retrospect, nepotism is not the best policy when it comes to court physicians.

I feel that the game fairly represents the number of incestuous relationships in the Middle Ages. With the increase in population and better transportation, incest probably has declined every century since man first walked on Earth. Rural settings probably produced more incestuous relationships than urban due to fewer choices. I wonder how many times a brother/sister (or other combination) left their home and arrived in a new community as a couple or money was sent home for a sister to join her brother and she arrives as a mail-order bride.

Yes, limited population meant limited opportunities, and incest was an unfortunate reality for most of the noble families of the time. The Catholic Church tried its level best to curb incestuous pairings through canon law, but in the end even they had to compromise in order to keep up good relations with the nobility in the West. But... yeah, inbreeding is how you get the Habsburgs.

I went down many rabbit holes in search of places, foods and translations. What was the poisonous berry named beauty?

That was deadly nightshade. The common name for the plant in many languages, like the Italian belladonna, means 'beauty' or 'pretty lady' because of its cosmetic uses.

 

[Revan86]

TWENTY-SEVEN
Diplomat’s Wife
7 September 1340 – 14 February 1342

In the reclining light of mid-Spring after Pascha, in the shadows under the north bridge on the eastern bank of the Morava, the young king and queen of the realm were deeply engaged in one of the most time-honoured traditional pastimes of the season.

Katarína’s back was stretching luxuriantly against a soft knoll of verdant new grass as her husband caressed her long tresses of red hair. She basked in his body’s warmth as it traversed hers in slow, pleasing glides. Her nipples, stiff with stimulation, gave her naughty thrills as his fine naked flesh stroked by them on each pass. She felt her toes curling at the tips of her splayed, outstretched legs, as the steady churning of her husband’s stiff rod stirred up her flowing juices.

Despite the risk that they might be discovered, she let the moans escape her maw as she felt Radomír thrust with his teenage vigour. He stilled her voice with a long, torrid kiss. The Queen of Moravia exulted in the wind stirring her waters as her husband came to his high crest, and then sank blissfully with him into the dénouement. Katarína held her husband close a long while, letting the swaying branches of the trees and the lazy clouds above pass over the part of his white back that still lay in sun, and let the spring sun dip down lower behind her head.

They were still linked in lairteam when Katarína asked him sleepily: ‘Sing to me again.’

Radomír obliged her:

‘O my river Donets!
There will be no small glory for you,
For you have lolled the prince on your waves,
For you have spread for him green grass
On your silver shores,
For you have enveloped him in your warm mists
In the shadow of the green trees,
For your drakes watched over him on the water,
And your seagulls on the streams,
And your black ducks in the winds!’

Katarína lay back, enthralled by her husband’s sweet singing in the East Slavic dialect of her forebears, letting herself feel the reverberation of his lungs through her body where they were still joined.

‘O Kráľ, why do you sing to me in so true a voice, from the songs of Old Rus’?’

‘I sing as I am moved, O mother of my daughter,’ answered Radomír. ‘You loll me on your waves. You spread your green grass for me. You envelop me in your warm mists.’

Katarína sighed—but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘You call me by such an old-fashioned epithet, but I can’t say I don’t like it. Why is it that you’re so sweet to me?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘It’s not obvious to me,’ Katarína confessed to him, laying bare her insecurities to one she at last dared. ‘I’m a snub-nosed, fox-faced ginger with a lewd and wanton mind. I was never any great beauty to start with. And… you’ve seen what giving birth to Kvetoslava has done to my belly. How can you still treat me like some rare jewel, some precious prize?’

Radomír took his wife’s hand in his.

‘Because you are a precious prize to me, worthy of being cherished,’ he told her. ‘You are a true bojar’s daughter—you are a Pavelková! In your soul, there is the diligence of Boľka, the forthrightness of Čestislava, the steadfast friendship of Gorislava—all that is good in mighty and mysterious Russia, that I behold in you!’

Despite being naked under the sky together with her husband, Katarína Sjätopolkovná nonetheless blushed to hear this praise. It was a fine thing to embrace and savour his body, and lose herself in him to the protean pulse of her lusts. It was something altogether different for her to be seen by him with such adoring eyes. Her heart quickened. She was vulnerable to him… but also comforted.

~~~

Storm clouds gathered on Radomír’s brows as the heralds from the Czech lands departed from his presence. Frankish bishops had made an intolerable incursion into his territory, and had swayed the ears of several of his Czech vassals. Now he was faced with the bald refusals of Bohumil of Litoměřice and Mislava of Hradec to return to the bosom of the True Faith. Such treachery would not go unanswered. And further ill news awaited the young king. Knieža Vladimír Mikulčický stepped forward.

‘Milord, I have received word of a complot against your kinswoman, Vratislava Rychnovská—the same whom you took it upon yourself to tutor these past several months.’

‘Ahh,’ Radomír pinched the bridge of his nose and massaged his troubled brow.

He could well understand the desire to do in Vratislava. That very prospect had tempted him once. The illegitimate by-blow of Dobrohneva, the wayward daughter of Kráľ Bohodar 4.’s brother Hviezdoslav, was a constant reminder to him of the debauched excesses that had taken hold of the Moravian court during his grandfather’s rule. But having owned these sinful thoughts to his father-confessor, he left the icon of the Theotokos chastised. He would not raise his hand against his kinswoman. Instead he had made it his study to give her lessons in various subjects.

‘Thank you for making me aware of this, Vladimír,’ the Kráľ told him. ‘I trust you to keep me apprised.’

‘Sire.’

The Zhromaždenie adjourned, and the Kráľ stepped out into the hallway. He was greeted at once by Katarína, whose face had a bright grin upon seeing him, and whose belly once more had a distinct bump. Their late-March tryst under the bridge by the riverbank had been fruitful indeed. At once the storm clouds on Radomír’s brow lifted as wife embraced husband.

‘Shall we go for a stroll in the gardens?’ asked Radomír.

‘I would love to,’ answered his Kráľovná.

It was the grandest feeling in the world. Radomír felt his breast swelling with joy as the queen took his hand and arm. It wasn’t simply duty in that touch—there was warmth there, as she drew close to him and nestled her head against his shoulder. Radomír gave thanks to God upon his breath, and also to his departed grandfather and father, for the Russian bride they had betrothed to him. How came it that Bohodar and Vojtech had arranged them so well? Had they known it would end up this way?

April in the gardens of Olomouc Castle was a dazzling affair. The black-boughed sloes—a feature of Olomouc’s royal garden since the days of Blažena Rychnovská—were bursting with their tiny white blossoms. The apples were blooming with elegant marble-hued flowers. The bilberry bushes were heavy with their drooping delicately-pink bulbs, as were the amaranths with their showy long clusters of deep magenta bloomlets. The roses were exploding vivid pinks and reds. Bright blue cornflowers splashed across the lower reaches. The oxeye chamomiles were in their full sunny golden radiance—and the purslanes, though far smaller, were no less vibrant in hue. Even the henbane, that herb of such dark and dubious repute, with its long creamy petals and dark eyes was blooming with a certain charm. The castle gardens also grew all sorts of useful vegetables and herbs. Cabbages, cucumbers, onions, lamb’s-lettuce, pease, carrots, parsnips, celery and various sorts of beans were there for nourishment; and fennel, anise, sorrel, mustard, dill, garlic, coriander and parsley were there for garnish and delectation.

Radomír was sensitive enough to his wife’s likes to make sure to slow his steps and linger around the apple-blossoms and let her breathe in their fragrance. For the current season, he had imported some saplings from the eastern Pontic steppes, which would produce some of the smaller, tarter fruits that Katarína tended to favour. That had been a much-appreciated gesture.

Unfortunately, they were not alone in their wandering. Radomír felt a sudden twinge at his side as Katarína drew closer to him. At first he thought it was her wonted shyness around strangers that was compelling her. But then he heard the voice of one of his minor vassals, a burgomaster from the Czech lands named Vavrinec, in converse with another man whom he recognised for his uncle Vasilii. And that was his wife’s name on the Vavrinec’s tongue!

‘—and of course, what should I say about the new queen? The way she stares and stands dumb, it’s utterly frightful! Of course, what can a man expect? None of these easterners has any manners at all…’

Just as Radomír had felt his wife’s shrinking next to him, so too Katarína felt the prickling, white-hot surge of bristling umbrage that coursed through all her husband’s sinews.

‘No—Mírek, don’t…’ Katarína whispered hurriedly. ‘It’s nothing to get worked up over—’

But Radomír had already laid a reassuring squeeze upon his wife’s hand, and disengaged himself from her, surging forward with a warlike stride and flinging down one of his gloves at the burgomaster’s feet.

‘Pick it up, varlet—or be branded a coward!’

Vavrinec was taken aback, but soon his look of shock and affront was replaced by a complacent smirk. King or not, what should an older man and a veteran fighter like him have to fear from this brash and impetuous child?

‘Take care how you throw your challenges, Kráľ. In what follows you may lose more than just your pride.’

‘If you’re so sure, then pick up my gage,’ Radomír growled, ‘or else repent and make amends to the Lady Katarína for your hateful words!’

Vavrinec stooped and clutched the Kráľ’s glove in his hands, then withdrew some dozen paces. Several of the castle garrison had taken note of these high words in the yard below, and drew near to watch this contest for honour. Vavrinec selected a young Czech guardsman among them for his second, while Radomír chose the dark-browed axe-bearing Aleksei for his.

For all the tension that began it, the fight itself was rather anticlimactic. Vavrinec had sorely underestimated both Radomír’s wrath and his skill, and had allowed himself to get overconfident. The king deftly turned aside two of the burgomaster’s lunges with the blade, and then aimed a knee straight at the older man’s midriff, which connected with a dull thump. Vavrinec doubled over, and Radomír struck him on the back of the head with the hilt of his weapon, sending him sprawling. The tip of the Kráľ’s blade followed where he landed—Vavrinec was at his mercy. The shamefaced burgomaster forced out a cry of yield, and made a gesture of apology toward the queen before limping away with his second at his back.

Katarína didn’t speak to him in words after that. She didn’t need to. The glow on her face said it all for her—as did the squeeze she gave his arm once he offered it back to her and resumed their walk.

~~~​

Katarína strained and bore down with an almighty push and a bellow that felt like it would tear the soul out of her labouring body. The head emerged. Though tears were streaming down her face and all the strength was seeping out of her, she pushed again, and let up a howl that curdled her own blood. Then there was the emptiness out of her that bore with it still the harrowing pain of childbirth. As though from a great distance, Katarína heard the smack and the cry of her own newborn.

‘It’s a girl,’ the midwife told her, giving the tiny infant into her hands. Every nerve in Katarína’s body was frayed with exhaustion and agony, but she still managed a weak smile for the life she had borne through it. The newly-emerged child was darker and swarthier of colouring already than her sister Kvetoslava had been, but she still bawled lustily enough!

Katarína slid to the side the golden fleur-de-lis pendant necklace that her husband had given her (a duplicate of the admired piece worn by Vojvodkyňa Charlotte of Sliezsko), freed one shoulder and breast from her shift, and gave the newborn suck. The girl drank greedily.

Radomír was admitted into the room—the important business of the women having been concluded successfully, the presence of a man was now once again tolerated. Katarína smiled up at him. The look on his rapturous face was a trifle childish, but charming all the same.

‘What shall we name her?’ asked Katarína.

‘After Kvetoslava, it seems Svietlana would be a suitable name,’ Radomír ventured.

‘Svietlana?’ Katarína said doubtfully. ‘For such a dark little thing?’

‘A girl of dun complexion can still be a light to us! I can already tell she’ll have your energy, Kaťuša.’

‘Well then,’ Katarína allowed, smiling thoughtfully, ‘lucky for you that I like the name… it’s very Russian. I’ll hope it comes to fit her better than it does now.’

~~~​

As agonising as childbirth had been, Katarína Sjätopolkovná’s hale young flesh sprang back from it with remarkable vigour, and she was back on her feet within a month. Radomír had to admit it to himself: he had missed her while she was recuperating from Svietlana’s birth. And not just for the sex, either—fierce and effulgent though it ever was with her! He’d come to rely on her more than he’d imagined he would.

As Queen, Katarína made a surprisingly complementary help-meet for him. They were two very different people, but their very differences made for a natural and easy division of labour. Radomír, who had never been a resentful or grudging boy by temper, happily entrusted various tasks to his wife… and he was practically never disappointed in the results. All of the workaday management and bookkeeping of the sort he had precious little patience for: that she handled with an unmatched competence and grace, as well and thoroughly as any šafár. For her part, Katarína was more than happy to work behind the scenes, with quill and ink and ledger-book, and leave all of the talking and people-handling to her well-spoken husband. Katarína also had a knack for dealing with the Church and handling correspondence needing a scholarly touch, which Radomír occasionally lacked.

Still, among the duties of a Queen were those that she couldn’t always escape, however much she might have wanted to. When it came time to tally the tax receipts, she found several entries which caught her attention. Despite her better judgement, she called and sent for Pan Predslav, who held several estates in the south of the Morava Valley, nigh on the marchland confluence with the Dyje.

‘Ah, Pan Predslav, there you are,’ said Katarína, though her pulse was quickening in terror at the prospect of addressing a man with whom she had only a passing acquaintance. ‘I had some questions for you about the duties from this past season, perhaps you could clarify some things for me?’

‘Happy to oblige, milady,’ said the elderly Pan.

It quickly became clear to Katarína that she’d made a grave error herself. Not in the books—her calculations had been as meticulous as ever! But in even attempting to engage this minor nobleman in conversation even about his taxes.

Predslav went into great detail and depth about the state of his lands, down to the last crock and chicken coop. Although he was clearly highly knowledgeable about his own estates, his droning, incessant voice was truly grating. Katarína found herself massaging her temples even as she attempted with limited success to get in an ‘ah’ or an ‘I see’, as a headache began to mount like a distant but inexorable cloud on the horizon. She was beginning to despair of coming to a resolution, when—

‘I thought I heard voices!’ Radomír came into the Queen’s study. ‘Ah, Predslav! It’s been too long. What’s this I hear about your niece’s new fiancée? I suppose congratulations are in order…!’

Katarína breathed a long (but hopefully inaudible) sigh of relief as Predslav turned his attention away from her and onto Radomír. What a miraculous wind that was to blow that cloud from her sky! She sat to herself and took the opportunity her husband had given her, to collect her composure once again.

After Predslav left, and the question of his taxes had been settled at last, Katarína was left alone with Radomír. She took his hand and spoke:

‘Husband, you’ve been so thoughtful to me this whole past year—ever since that day I took you down under the bridge, when you knelt and sang to me from the Lay of Igor. It’s enough to make me think you’re after my heart.’

‘What? Is that so wrong, for a husband?’ asked Radomír.

‘Not at all!’ exclaimed Katarína with a laugh. ‘I’m flattered! But… how can I put this?… I never desired the cold courting of a knight-errant or a champion or a songster to praise my beauty from afar. I only ever desired a man who’d hold me and warm me. And you had my heart already, on our wedding-night. So no kneeling down for me anymore, alright? Not unless you want to… you know…’

‘Ah, the life of a diplomat’s wife,’ grinned Radomír. ‘I think I spoil you too much.’

‘Keep on spoiling me, then! Shall we arrange another excuse to get outdoors, just the two of us?’

‘You’re on.’

 

[Midnite Duke]

First two of ten are girls. With Katarina, it may be more beneficial to know when she is not pregnant then when she is. Wonderful photos of the bridge and garden. Thank you for the update.