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

[filcat]

A taste of things to come...

You are a machine, armed with words loaded with dreams rampaging through stories, master revan.
As if the list of must-reads is not already overfull.
Great. Now will have to check the vic3 part of the forum.

 

[Revan86]

You are a machine, armed with words loaded with dreams rampaging through stories, master revan.
As if the list of must-reads is not already overfull.
Great. Now will have to check the vic3 part of the forum.

It will be awhile yet. I want to finish Lions and get a good head of steam up on Thin Wedge first. But I've already been dipping my toes in Vic3 gameplay with Moravia, and that is a story that I eventually plan to tell.

 

[Revan86]

FORTY-ONE
Nitra’s Last Stand
22 January 1374 – 2 October 1376

I.
22 January 1374 – 1 June 1375​

‘In antiquity,’ the herald from Trenčín read aloud the missive from the Kňažná of Nitra in a quavering voice, ‘the crown of Veľká Morava was lawfully held by the family of Mojmír, in particular by the God-fearing sovereign Rastislav. The ancestor of the Rychnovský family, Bohodar, often called Slovoľubec, against the God-given right of the Mojmírovci and against the will of God himself, rebelled against the lawful authority of his rightful Kráľovná and took authority wrongfully into his own hands. Thereupon his incestuous son, even more mired in infamy and perversion against the law of truth, by an act of brutal warfare destroyed the power of the rightful ruling house.’

Here the herald paused, his voice failing him as he gulped. He knew that what he was speaking here was treason. But he had been bidden upon pain of death to deliver it to the Kráľ. That death might well be upon him anyway, after he had said his piece here in the Zhromaždenie.

‘Go on,’ Radomír bade him calmly.

The herald collected his courage. ‘The Mojmírovci—to wit, their cadet branch of Mikulčický—now holds the sway of the bulk of the traditional lands of Veľká Morava. The ability to right this grievous wrong has lain outside the grasp of Mojmír’s descendants for over four centuries. No longer: her Serene Highness Kráľovná Ctislava now assumes the familial duty to which God has enjoined her, and shall take her rightful place as ruler of these lands. She demands that you relinquish your crown peaceably to its lawful owner. If not, she stands ready to take it from your head by force.’

A grim smile flickered across the King’s face as he heard this ultimatum. A letter which eloquently spoke to a certain set of historical truths while carefully skirting around others. Radomír, to whom the family history was rather important, had already been making mental notes on some of these. Ctislava had mentioned Rastislav, but not his daughter Bratromila. Thus, she had also failed to mention Slovoľubec’s faithful protection of Bratromila, Bratromila’s flagrant adultery with one of her men-at-arms, and later her base betrayal and defilement of the grave of his son and Radomír’s namesake, Radomír Polunemec. History could be a tricky thing, and dangerous in the wrong hands.

On the other hand, Radomír couldn’t help but admire Ctislava’s gumption. Clearly Knieža Bystrík 2.’s daughter had determined goals ranging far beyond her inheritance. And clearly she was making good use of the formidable war chest her late father had bequeathed to her, as well as the considerable manpower of her vast holdings, which did indeed stretch all the way from Malopolska into Višehrad, and which also included the traditional lands that had belonged to the Bijelahrvatskići before their extinction in the male line. By this time, the Zhromaždenie were all looking to their Kráľ Radomír 4. for an answer to this open and blatant treason.

‘Well, well,’ Radomír spoke at last. ‘It seems Ctislava possesses a long—if rather selective—familial memory. But the girl has some spunk; I’ll credit her that. Not that this shall stop me from doing what God demands me to do in response. Guards!’

The messenger visibly recoiled as two of the zbrojnoši stepped forward, one on either side of him. But his fears were without grounds.

Radomír made a small gesture with his hand. ‘When I give the word, see this person safely back to Trenčín. Grant him safe passage with my personal guarantee. I permit no man to touch a single hair on his head while he remains in our territory.’

To the messenger he added: ‘Give your mistress back this reply from me. The Rychnovských have ruled Moravia in a single uninterrupted line for over four hundred and fifty years. The claim by which she grabs for the crown upon my head is centuries past having crumbled to dust. And in the name of Jesus Christ, I shall by no means permit another Bratromila Mojmírová, given to the same sins of the heart and of the flesh, to exercise overlordship of the lands which He has entrusted to my care. If she wishes to make war for this crown… she is welcome to try.’

~~~​

‘Please tell me you have some good news,’ Radomír sighed.

Kňažná Praksida spoke in a low voice to her brother-in-law. ‘I do, but I’m afraid it will cost you. Rogvolod is a countryman of mine… an Uhro-Rusin of the Carpathian lands. He has served as a varjag in Byzantium for most of his youth, and now serves at the head of a free company. Most of them are little better than bandits and opriški, but Rogvolod is after his own fashion a man of honour. I think he can be convinced to lend you the axes of his men… for a price. It may be as much as a thousand denárov.’

‘We can pay it. Was there anything else?’

‘I’m able to muster thirty thousand men from the crown levies,’ Praksida answered him. ‘We will gather at the vanes by Kroměříž, Přerov and Hodonín for a speedy attack on Nitra.’

‘How does that compare to what Ctislava can send into the field?’

‘In terms of numbers, the advantage is ours—but too near odds-on for my taste,’ Praksida told the Kráľ grimly. ‘I understand that there wasn’t much you personally could have done, given your grandfather’s loss of power after the English War, but this rebellion wasn’t just Ctislava’s idea. It appears her father had also been massing his forces and cash reserves for just such an occasion. Our one advantage is that we can attack Nitra from two fronts—from my lands in Podkarpatská as well as from yours in Moravia.’

‘How soon can you be ready?’

‘I can ride out with you, Radomír, whenever you’re ready. Make sure you say your good-byes to my sister, and keep yourself safe for her sake. She needs you more than you know.’

Radomír spent the night together with his wife. They tried every position that they knew and that their aging, wrinkling bodies could manage… but they favoured the traditional way. That was so Katarína could hold him tightly, wrap her thighs and calves around his flanks, and dig her fingers into the flesh of his back. She wanted to make the absolute most of this last time together, and she wanted to drown her fears of the upcoming civil war in the oblivion of carnal rapture.

~~~​

‘Husband,’ Taimi spoke to Kulin the following morning, ‘before you go, there’s something you should know.’

‘What is it, mu kallis?’ Kulin asked her.

Taimi drew Kulin’s hand down to her abdomen and beamed happily at her husband.

‘Neljane,’ she told him.

Kulin kissed his wife fervently. ‘Will you be alright here on your own?’

‘I shall have to be,’ Taimi answered him. ‘You have your duty; I shall not keep you from it. I will only ask that you take care of yourself, and come back to me.’

‘The same goes for you,’ Kulin told her gently, touching her full-cheeked round face.

Among the couples of the generation of Radomír’s children, Kulin and Taimi were perhaps the happiest, and absolutely the closest. Taimi had been nothing but supportive, sweet, understanding and kind to her husband since the day they married. And, even though Kulin could get a bit wild when it came to the defence of her honour and good name, she had still had a marked influence on him. Kulin had softened noticeably from when he was a child.

But Kulin’s and Taimi’s was not the only parting taking place. Just up the hall, as he was getting into his gear, Radomír was approached by whom he considered the least likely to see him off and wish him well—his estranged eldest half-sister Svietlana, who had spent so long under house arrest for some crime which he had long forgotten. It was owing to the intercession of his devout friend Evstafii that she had been released. The son of Lodovica da Ponte and the daughter of Alexandrinē Komnenē regarded each other for one long, hard, icy moment before she spoke.

‘Brother,’ Svietlana told him frankly, ‘I hear you are off to war.’

‘You hear correctly.’

Svietlana opened her mouth, closed it again, considered, and then spoke bluntly: ‘You may not come back from this one. You could very well be killed.’

‘That is true in any war,’ answered Radomír brusquely.

‘In that case, I’d rather you didn’t die before I can make a clean breast of things with you. I know we two have never been close. And as my mother was—well… let’s just say that she and I were alike in more ways than one. I suppose I resented all my younger half-siblings.’

‘Whatever your sins, you’ve long since paid for them,’ Radomír told her honestly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t release you far earlier. It’s to my shame that it was left to Evstafii to recall my conscience to me.’

‘And I regret, deeply, the wicked and petty things that I have said and done to you since. It wasn’t fair to have blamed you or resented you for my own mistakes, or for Father’s correction of me.’

Radomír inclined his head to her. ‘Čo bolo, bolo. If you’re willing to forgive me, I’m more than happy to forgive you, sister.’

Svietlana and Radomír embraced. ‘Go with God, then, brother. And be safe.’

Kráľ Radomír and Kňažná Praksida, together with the zbrojnoši and družinniki of Olomouc, assembled in the courtyard, examined arms, and rode out to join the First Army at Hodonín. The train of riders, armigers, archers and bombardy with their crews snaked their way along the road southward to the border with Nitra… with them went the two sons of Radomír who were still in the world, Kulin and Ostromír, as well as the cream of the loyal Moravian nobility. Riding close by Radomír were his son-in-law and šafár Ruslav Rychnovský, as well as the burgomaster Radislav of Telč whom he had saved from the wild boar some months before.

They were joined on the road by the rough hirelings of the Carpathians. Praksida was right—these men were none too prepossessing. Most of them had mismatching arms and armour, of the sort which bespoke their status as bandits and irregulars. They spoke in an Uhro-Rusin dialect which Radomír easily recognised, although their lingo was crude—they spoke almost entirely in mastnoe laťa, the obscene slang common to the Russian lower classes. However, their leader, Rogvolod, was a well-educated man versant in Greek and Moravian, and the respect and loyalty of his ragtag band had been hard-earned on his part, by being a fair settler of disputes and a generous divider of their spoils.

The first target for Ctislava’s rebellion was the fastness at Zvolen, overlooking the right bank of the Hron. Zvolen, although surrounded on all sides by lands belonging to Ctislava, in fact swore fealty not to her but instead to the Rychnovský-Nisa lords of Silesia. The rebels took up their positions around the castle and set up their own bombards. However, none of them were under any illusions that they would be there long enough to starve the garrison out. Ctislava would know as well as anyone that the hammer would fall from the west long before then.

And so she kept the bulk of her men mobile and prepared to move on a moment’s notice. On the advice of her maršál, no doubt, she made the first move, hoping that picking her field of battle would afford her some advantage. She gave up the siege of Zvolen when it became clear that Radomír’s army was approaching, crossed them over to the left bank of the Hron, and marched them downriver fifty miles to the village of Tekov.

Tekov was attractive to Ctislava as a choice of battlefield for several reasons. For one thing, and this was a natural benefit to a defending army along any river, it would force the king’s men to ford the Hron before attacking. Secondly, the area around Tekov was thickly wooded. Ctislava’s army depended more heavily on archers and crossbowmen than did Radomír’s, and positioning those men in the woods aiming along the river would afford them a crucial advantage. And thirdly and most importantly: Tekov’s villagers and woodsmen were of unquestionable loyalty—to her personally, and not to the Crown. The army could move among them in secrecy without any need to fear their troop movements being leaked to the Kráľ.

They were positioned at Tekov for only three months. They spent May, June and July there, and the king’s troops arrived at last in August. There was sound reason for the delay: at that hot time of year, the river was running low. Fording it would not be nearly the costly obstacle that it would have been even in June. Even so, the battle would be a grim and terrible one—there was no escaping the fact.

Father and sons—Kráľ Radomír, Kulin and Ostromír—were very much alike in this: they did not ask anything of their troops that they were not willing to do themselves. With loud cries, and weapons raised, the king and his sons led the bold charge across the Hron. They had no thought for their own safety, but were more jealous of their honour.

Flights of arrows and crossbow quarrels flew in swarms out of the woods on the left bank. The Kráľ was the first to be struck—a crossbow bolt hit him in the shoulder, and very nearly unhorsed him. Ostromír was the next one to be hit. An arrow fell when he was halfway across, and embedded itself in his leg just above the knee. This wound was a grievous one: only by God’s grace did the arrow miss the artery in his leg. And then Kulin—another crossbow bolt struck him in the left arm before they reached the left bank. None of the men of the royal line left that battlefield unscathed.

Alongside them, one of the better-heeled varjagi, a man by the name of Ingvar Vogák, was fighting boldly, his axe flashing left and right and drawing long sprays of blood where it swept. But Ingvar too took a heavy blow: he was struck by the ord of a spear, and he fell in the shallows of the river. Thankfully, the opriški came to his side and dragged him to safety. Even among such foul-mouthed bandits as these, it seemed, there was a strong sense of brotherhood.

The battle dragged on through the afternoon, ebbing and flowing in a long, painful wave, without either side decisively turning that tide. The Hron, which flowed clear upstream of the battle, darkened to the colour of wine as it ran toward the Danube. And Tekov claimed yet more from Radomír.

Radislav of Telč, a man who would have shied away from even a mouse in any other setting, found himself cornered. He tried to fight his way out of the ring with a boldness beyond his reach. But it was in vain—the burgomaster fell beneath a hail of crossbow quarrels, and lay face-down in the mud of the Hron. He did not get up again. And Ruslav Rychnovský, the king’s šafár and son-in-law, likewise met his end at Tekov. He had the misfortune of fighting on foot in the front line opposite a contingent of well-armed Nitran zbrojnoši, one of whose keen-edged blades found his neck. Once he fell there was no hope of saving him.

But the king did have a slight advantage of numbers, and with this the tide of battle was turned, inch by hard-fought inch, in the king’s favour. In the end, Ctislava was forced to withdraw, and the king’s men carried the field.

Ctislava moved off to the east and lay siege to Šariš—likewise a lonely and isolated outpost of loyalty to the Rychnovských completely surrounded by lands holding to the Mojmírovci. With no immediate threat to his troops in the open field, Radomír split his own armies and sent them to beset a number of different towns in western Slovakia, including the all-important capital at Nitra.

And Nitra did fall… but not before Ctislava, who had the advantages of a single army at siege and of a head start, carried the vane from off the walls of Šariš.

As the King’s army entered Nitra, a single messenger from Olomouc followed them within the walls and came to the castle.

‘What word from home?’ asked Radomír.

‘This word is for milord your son, Highness,’ said the messenger. ‘And it is an ill word.’

Kulin came forward. The look of dread on his pained face was clear enough. It seemed he feared what was coming before the herald spoke it to him.

‘Lord Kulin, I am grieved beyond measure to be the one to bear you these tidings. You have a new daughter, who is living and well. But Lady Taimi… I am sorry to say…’

Kulin blanched. His lips formed the single soundless word ‘nie’, before he staggered to the nearest chair and sank heavily in it. After all the death that had come at Tekov, it was this one that had happened afar off in Olomouc which had truly pierced and wounded him to the heart.

 

[Sir Lancealot]

Two daughter-in-laws lost to childbirth, and a son-in-law lost to battle. Radomírs children aren't having much luck with their spouses, are they?

 

[Midnite Duke]

The next generation seems to be ill-fated. The boys have not produced a grandson. Thank you

The Duchess of Nitra is a bold and powerful foe.

 

[Revan86]

II.
13 January 1376 – 2 October 1376​

Radomír and Katarína hadn’t been the only couple to part upon the eve of war in the time-honoured way. Prior to mustering at Hodonín, Imma had clung close to Ostromír, as tightly as she could, the whole night. And there had been the expected result. It had been April when they had lain together and Imma had conceived. And it was on the ides of January the following year that she gave birth.

Attending the Frisian woman as midwife was a guest of the court who hailed from aš-Šâm, who had been trained in medicine according to the books of both Muslim and Christian physicians. Although her swarthy appearance was frempt and frightening to the expectant mother, the Damascene woman’s bedside manner and aid had been of great comfort and assistance to her. For her part, Nîjâr, who had come to Olomouc largely in search of a life of ease, had been moved by the plight of the royal family and the losses they had suffered to complications of childbirth. Both Vratislava and Taimi had died while Nîjâr had been a guest in their house. If it lay within her power to save the last surviving daughter-in-law… she would do it. She made sure the bed and the entire room had been disinfected with strong spirits before Imma dilated, and then made sure that clean linens, basin and surgical tools were on hand.

And it was good that Nîjâr was on hand. Imma was pregnant with twins. When the thirty-five-year-old Frisian woman bore forth, it was to a double fruit—a boy and a girl. On the advice of her mother-in-law, Imma named them Vojtech (which had by this time taken a special place in the honoured canon of regal Moravian names) and Vyšemíra. At long last, there was a male grandson to secure the line.

This news was delivered to Ostromír in Nitra. When he heard it, he blew out a long sigh of relief. But he could not bring himself to smile at the news—not even at the news of a male heir.

‘How can I smile, knowing what has befallen all three of my brothers? What happiness is there for me, while they must suffer this grief?’

For his part, Kulin was still shocked in his grief. It took him great effort to do even the most basic of winter tasks in the camp, like cutting wood or breaking ice for fish and fresh water.

Trenčín fell after Nitra. They were quickly followed by Bratislava. Kňažná Ctislava might have gotten a head start on the king in taking towns and fastnesses for his having split his men, but she was roundly losing the war all along her western front. With much of the west having been secured for the king, he moved his armies east to relieve Spíš and Šariš. There was much rejoicing in these towns when the Kráľ retook the fortifications and flew the beloved chequered eagle vane from the battlements.

~~~​

There is a tale which was passed down among the Jews of Naymark and the surrounding area, which touches upon these events. It is not relayed in any of the ‘official’ histories of Moravia, and thus historians have been bitterly divided over its authenticity. However, it does provide an intriguing perspective on subsequent events whose historicity is undisputed. Thus, a version of it that was recorded in 1882 by famed folklorist Yossel Volf Abramovic is included here.

It was a long time ago, in the village of Zakopané, that a most curious event occurred among us—a miracle of the Most High, for the Lord loves his people! But it also became for us a matter of continuing debate and argument. It did not at first appear as a blessing—indeed, it looked at first to be a curse. The rebbes still talk of it, even today! And they still bandy about the matter, and still we must strive to understand the ways in which the Lord shows His love to us.

Understand that back then, the thermal baths at Zakopané were yet to be discovered. Most of us back then made our way by other means. There was in our little village a little inn, a little tailor shop, a little bakery, a little butcher’s shop, a little mine and a little smithy, from which the great lords north and south would come and ask us to strike coins. And of course, most important, we had our little synagogue, from whence we would pray to the Most High to keep and protect us. But many of us were poor bowers, and we scraped a living from those high hills with whatever our scrawny sheep and goats could afford us.

On the outskirts of Zakopané there lived one of these: Mendl Roytman, who lived together with his wife Zissel and their daughter Breindl. At that time old Mendl was as hard up as hard up could get. He was in a real umglik! The harvest was poor, his two goats were mere skin and bones—and his wife and little girl likewise went with whistling stomachs most days. If he had two babkes in the crock at home, why, that would be a lucky day! But the Lord protected them, and they did not succumb to hunger.

Old Mendl was coming back from the hillside where he was grazing his goats. That’s when his whole megile with the two young men began.

See, there was a war on at that time. The goyim were always at war over one thing or another, as will they ever be until the Aḥarit ha-Yamim, even until the hour when Ben-David arrives. Wars are real calamity for us Jews. Both sides will take in taxes even the spoons off our tables, and that’s if they’re feeling generous! With wars come still worse. Old Mendl had given all the best of what he had to one of the armies already, and was left with just this sorry pair of beasts.

He came within sight of his house at the end of a long and weary day. He was grumbling over his misfortunes, trying to drown out the grumbling of his stomach. Then his eyes looked toward his house, and he saw two young men coming toward it. Who were they? Yingatshes? Ganovim? The Almighty forbid it! Cutthroats? These days all manner of lawless men without fear of the Almighty were about on the roads, and by the look of these two, they were capable of anything! If there was an inch on either of them that didn’t have its cuts and bruises and caked blood and drek—Mendl couldn’t see it. And what’s more, their heads were uncovered. They were goyim. And here they were, creeping up to the door of his house like they meant no good!

Mendl lifted his eyes to heaven. ‘Oy gevald! Is this how I am to meet my end, Lord? At the hands of a pair of goyim who want to rob me even of what I don’t have?’

As the young men drew nearer his house, Mendl Roytman grabbed the haft of his staff and gripped it harder. He wasn’t going to let them cross his threshold without a fight. As they drew nearer each other Mendl could see more clearly that one of them was dark-coloured and morose; and the other one had lighter hair and a more positive look. This latter one approached him first and called out to him:

‘Hey, fellow! Do you mind if we take shelter here, just for the night?’

Mendl cast a disdainful eye upon them. ‘Ver zenen di vos betn?’

The two young men shared a look between them. The dark morose one gave a nod, leaving the fairer one to respond. ‘We’re soldiers. We were attacked and separated from our troop. We ask only for one night’s safe haven—that’s all.’

Soldiers! Mendl could well believe it. Those weren’t toys they had, strapped at their belts! But that gave him even further misgivings. Where two soldiers were, there would soon be four, then eight, then forty—smashing and looting they could grab, and burning anything they couldn’t. Mendl was tempted to send them off to meet their fate, with stones and curses at their heels, right then and there. But something caused him to look afresh at the faces of the two. So young they were, and clearly once good-looking. Neither one could be yet thirty. And if the fairer one were any older than his Breindl, it couldn’t be by a day! And then he looked still closer. Under all the shmuts, that was real grief on their faces. Such a look couldn’t be feigned.

The battle that was going on inside Mendl’s breast was swung only when he remembered the tale of Abraham and how he was visited by the men from Mamre, who turned out to be messengers of the Most High. It was an obligation, straight from the Law, for him to give shelter to these strangers. But, Mendl being Mendl, he put them off for a bit.

‘Let me go within first, and speak with my wife. Then we can talk further.’

Zissel, for her part, had been watching and hearing all from inside the house. When Mendl came within and told her about the men outside wanting shelter for the night, she chided him:

‘Welcome those two goyim into our house? Young men? Ruffians? And you with an unwed daughter at home? Have you completely lost your head, you old shmegege? What kind of a father are you?’

‘We belong to the Lord, Zissel! They cannot bring us to grief before His face! And think about our responsibility to Him!’

‘Ohhh, responsibility!’ Zissel rolled her eyes heavenward with a laugh. ‘I have a husband who thinks he’s Abraham! And what of your responsibility to us—your wife and daughter? You’re no Abraham—you’re a Lot, offering us up to strangers, to let them do to us as they please!’

Back and forth they went like this for some time, with Mendl trying to plead the young men’s case, and Zissel trying to plead their poor family’s. How dare Mendl enjoin the law of hospitality when they couldn’t even feed themselves, and their house was falling apart around them! Even Breindl joined in on the side of her mother. ‘I have no desire to be stared at, groped, pawed by those two—let alone worse dishonoured!’

Mendl could see he was getting nowhere, and so he opened the door to give his apologies to the two young men, and ask them to look elsewhere. But they beat him to the punch.

‘Old fellow, we’re sorry,’ said the dark morose one. ‘I wouldn’t want to put you or your family in peril. Tell us merely where we can find an old sheepfold or even an old cave in these hills to spend the night. We will take care of the rest.’

Zissel was standing in the doorway just behind Mendl. She let out a sigh.

‘Very well, bring them in, husband.’

To the two young men, she said: ‘We have but little to offer. No meat. A crust of bread, a few drops of small beer—that’s it. But you’re welcome to it.’

The younger one shook his head. ‘Shelter is all we need, good woman.’

However dirty and scruffy they looked, once they came inside the two goyim behaved like guests ought. They didn’t lift their eyes to Breindl, or speak to her in any but the mildest of voices. And whatever they ate and drank, they made sure that it was no more than their share, two pieces out of five. They slept apart from their hosts, and when day came they gave their thanks and left, as they had promised.

That seemed to have been an end of it. But no deed goes unmarked.

Some weeks later, a huge army of men came through. At the head of them was a grand, proud, tall man with a helmet and gleaming mail, and raiment and a fine fat steed, and banners and spear-heads behind him. To see such grand folk in Zakopané was rare indeed.

‘Is this the house of Old Mendl?’ asked this great personage.

Mendl bowed deeply. ‘It is.’

The great man lit down from his horse. Mendl cringed backward. Jews quickly learn never to expect anything from this sort of man but blows and humiliation. But instead the great man took him by the shoulders and embraced him!

‘You saved the lives of my sons. They were hunted by my foe, the Duchess of Nitra. They are the only men left in my line, and you gave them shelter. Old Mendl, though you are not one of us, know that the King of Moravia is deeply in your debt.’

Indeed it was Radomír the Fourth who visited Mendl Roytman that day. And the two seeming-vagrants he’d offered shelter to that one night—those had been Kulin and Ostromír, his sons. Not long after that, a herald showed up at the head of an entire herd of goats—pearly white and fat ones, too! A gift from the king, as thanks. Old Mendl went from being the poorest man in Zakopané to the richest, overnight.

When the matter came to light, as after the King’s visit indeed it must, it became quite the talk, well beyond Zakopané—even in Naymark and Tsanz! The rebbes still debate to this day, whether Old Mendl had the right of things when he invited them inside, or whether Zissel did. As poor as they all were, and as vulnerable, could the laws of hospitality still be said to have applied? What if, rather than the King’s sons, they really had turned out to be brigands? Would Old Mendl still have been right to welcome them in? And was Old Mendl more like Abraham after all, or more like Lot?

All the same… it’s common knowledge around Naymark and Tsanz that when Radomír the Fourth granted freedom to the Jews, he more than likely had Old Mendl in mind, and the good turn he’d done for his sons.

~~~

The Battle of Orava took place on New Year’s Day of 6886.

During the battle, the already-wounded Ostromír took to the field boldly, and led a charge down the slope toward the enemy’s right flank. But he was flung headlong from his horse and very nearly trampled to death. It was all that his zbrojnoši could do to drag his battered unconscious body from the field.

But the King’s men carried the day—and with it, the war. The pretensions of the Kňažná of Nitra to the overlordship of Moravia were over, and she herself was taken back to Olomouc in fetters to stand trial for her treason.

The very first punishment that Radomír meted out to Ctislava, was to strip her of the rights to Višehrad, and give them to a local noblewoman by the name of Lesana Višehradská. The second punishment was to strip her of all rights to lordship over the lands of Nový Sadec. And he granted these lands to Hrabě Bohuš with direct vassalage, but with specific provisions in place to grant certain crown privileges and legal immunities to the region’s Jewry.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Ostromir has a son but is wounded. I thought that Kulin was older and the heir. thank you

 

[Revan86]

@Midnite Duke, my apologies for the lack of response to your comments. I appreciate them a lot! I shall correct this forthwith.

The four (now two) sons have yet to produce a grandson, though the daughter wants to name the incestuous grandson after you. This has been another wonderful royal marriage, though more lusty and less cute than Botta/Czenzi. Thanks

Well, I have a gold standard for lusty couples: Eustach and Dolz. Mírko and Kaťuša are a bit more 'vanilla'. But yes, I agree!

Two daughter-in-laws lost to childbirth, and a son-in-law lost to battle. Radomírs children aren't having much luck with their spouses, are they?

Yup, it was a long run of really bad luck for them. Best-laid plans and all that. And in CK3, the bad luck always seems to come in clumps. That's the risk of running an Ironman game, though!

The next generation seems to be ill-fated. The boys have not produced a grandson. Thank you

The Duchess of Nitra is a bold and powerful foe.

Ctislava is an ambitious heir to a historical claim on the crown of Moravia that stretches back hundreds of years, as well as being a highly powerful vassal. She was always going to be trouble.

Ostromir has a son but is wounded. I thought that Kulin was older and the heir. thank you

You are right: Kulin was older and the heir. Míra was the first and only of his sons to sire a son; I referred to Vojtech as his (Míra's) heir. Sorry about the confusion.

 

[Revan86]

FORTY-TWO
Life, the Universe and Everything
2 January 1377 – 2 November 1378​

Time was that wherever Kulin went and whatever Kulin did, Radko was sure to follow—so close were these two brothers. This time, however, it was Kulin who followed Radko.

Taimi had been sweet, supportive, tender. Whatever true goodness lay in Kulin’s heart in the midst of his wildness and cruelty of temper, he owed its emergence entirely to her. Her death had come as a heavy blow to Kulin. Young as he was, he was convinced that he would never love another woman again the way he had loved Taimi. And that was probably true.

Kulin would come to grow accustomed to the pain of Taimi’s loss—though it would never leave him entirely. And he would always cherish her memory. Given time and patience, he could well have made another stab at the prospect of marriage and made a success of it, though any woman Kulin married would find herself in the unenviable position of being second in Kulin’s heart to Taimi.

However, unlike courage, patience had never been one of Kulin’s more prominent virtues. He was young and idealistic, and on consideration he felt it unfair to ask another woman to have to make such a compromise. When the war was over and they were again back in Olomouc, Kulin made clear to his father his determination to withdraw from the world. He entered a cœnobitic community in southern Moravia, and within three years took the black riassa along with the monastic name of Agapét (after the right-believing Pope of Rome).

That left Míra, the youngest, as the sole remaining son—and Radomír’s heir by default.

And Míra’s body was broken after his ill-fated charge at the Battle of Orava, with body and soul but loosely strung together. After they returned to Olomouc from the Tatras, Ostromír had to be carried in on a litter.

Imma, upon seeing him, did not at once swoop to his side. Her face turned stony, she crossed her arms, and she turned her back on her husband. How dare he—? How dare Míra, after having left her pregnant with twins, gone out and played the bravo with his own life? Imma was incensed and disgusted. Being the only one of Radomír’s sons with a son, she felt that Ostromír had a responsibility to himself and to the kingdom as a whole to take greater care of himself. And he insisted on treating his life in this light way—! It was both a mark of how much she cared for him, and a mark of how different she was from her husband, that she reacted this way.

That was further proven when Imma turned first to her Damascene companion at the birthing-bed. She had come to trust Nîjâr’s remedies implicitly.

‘Nîjâr—see to it that Míra is placed in a safe and clean place, and that he is well tended-to. Give him whatever you think best to speed his healing.’

‘Understood, milady.’

~~~​

The youngest of Kráľ Radomír’s and Kráľovná Katarína’s ten children came out into society on the twenty-fifth of March, 6886. Once again, Radomír was particularly impressed with Katarína’s tutelage of Jaromíra—she had turned out to be every bit as efficient and thrifty a manager of the household as her mother was. Radomír complimented his wife on how well their daughter had turned out.

‘You know how best to thank me,’ Katarína told him briskly. ‘I’ll be in our bedchamber.’

It was a mark of Radomír’s administration that comparatively more attention was paid to foreign affairs than in previous reigns. Radomír was particularly solicitous of his Russian guests—any Russian guest, whether high in rank or low. He continued his long conversations with Posadnik Evstafii Bräčislavič, whose writ now fell once again under the sway of his fellow Belarusians rather than the Galicians.

‘God be thanked, for He has been gracious unto my people,’ said Evstafii, crossing himself piously. ‘Belarus now stretches from my village in the west, to the southern bank of the Čudska-Pskoŭskaje Lake in the north, all the way to south to the banks of the Paŭdnevy Bug at Vinnica. God save our righteous Knyaginya Dobroslava!’

‘She sounds like quite the accomplished woman!’ Radomír exclaimed.

‘She moves a little too quickly for my liking—a ruler should be stately and deliberate, not rushing about here and there, chasing after worldly cares. But our Dobroslava knows the Scriptures and the Psalms, she keeps the fasts, and she listens to the abbots,’ Evstafii said. He said it like he could offer no higher praise. ‘Although her campaigns have affected Galicia and Great Rus’ on either side of us, she nevertheless gets along well with the leaders of the minor principalities.’

‘Such as?’ asked Radomír, interested.

‘Valdai and Vologda are grateful to have Belarus near at hand, to defend them from incursions from the heathen. Also, she is on good terms with the Knyaz’ of Voronež, Radoslav,’ Evstafii said.

Radomír nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. We have sent the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre to Radoslav, to aid him in defending his territory from the Muslims of Fariborz.’

Evstafii gave his head a vigorous shake. ‘God shall judge the Hagarenes according to the measure they mete. You do well to defend your brother in the faith. I meant to ask you—what news from the far north? You have holdings on Tapvozera.’

Radomír shrugged. ‘They aren’t my holdings—the Sámi of those lands only swear fealty to the Knieža of Česko, and show up once or twice a year in Praha to pay their respects… if that.’

‘Still, you must keep yourself aware of what goes on up there. Indulge me, friend!’

‘Well…’ said Radomír, stroking his chin, ‘the Sámi who live in our territory call themselves “Kíllt”. The Kíllt siida who swears fealty to Česko was unhappy that the Nuõrttsääʹm who live to the north lost a war to Riibma, the Sámi siida-isid who lives to the west.’

‘And the Sámi in your sway are right-believing, yes? What about Riibma?’

‘He commemorates the Pope in Rome.’

‘Gospodi pomiluj,’ Evstafii crossed himself fervently. ‘I shall pray for the Kíllt people. May God deliver them safely from the perils of war and schism! And… what’s this I hear about the Jews? Do I hear rightly, that you have granted them liberties to follow their own perversions?’

‘In the territory of Sadec, yes. And I wouldn’t call them “perversions”.’

‘That’s where we disagree,’ Evstafii shook his head disapprovingly. ‘You can never really tell with those people, you know. They keep many of their teachings hidden, and some of them follow the occult and consult with demons. And they show the greatest disrespect to Our Lord in their writings.’

‘That may be the case among some, but not among the Qara’im who live in Sadec. They praise Our Lord as a great prophet and teacher of the Law… just not the Messiah.’

‘That’s fine except for one detail,’ Evstafii answered. ‘Jesus was the Messiah. And He is God. Either He was telling us the truth on these things, or else He was a deceiver or a madman. If Christ is Lord, then the Jews cannot be right. Not even your Qara’im.’

‘They may be… mistaken on some religious matters,’ Radomír owned, ‘but I can’t complain about the results. Hrabě Bohuš has taken to consulting some of the prominent Jews in Sadec about diplomatic matters; my foreign affairs have never gone this smoothly before.’

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, my friend. Truly I do. For your sake, and also for theirs.’

~~~​

The injuries of his children in the war, and the loss of other of his kin, did take their toll on Kráľ Radomír. The more stressed he became, the more he resorted to being out-of-doors, either by himself, or with a courtier, or with his wife. Fresh air and brisk exercise helped clear his head the way nothing else could. He also went on hunts more often these days, though as often as not, he didn’t manage to score a single kill. Still, the kills were not the point. Radomír was happy simply to be out in God’s creation.

And then, in late August toward the end of 6886, he received a most peculiar missive. It was from Ásbjörn, a minor konungr among the severané. It contained a poem—a lengthy poem in rather stilted Moravian, which seemed at pains to explore anything and everything about life, about the cosmos, and about, in particular, destiny. Radomír had this poem read aloud in the Zhromaždenie, not knowing quite what to make of it himself. It seemed, to his mind, to be a bit aimless and turgid.

‘A fine piece of work, Mírko!’ exclaimed Praksida.

‘Do you truly think so?’

‘Certainly!’ said his maršálka and friend. ‘I truly admired the part about the importance of one’s deeds while one is alive, and how no man can hope to understand how he will come to be regarded—even by his own children and grandchildren. It is tragic, but it has the ring of truth.’

There was a general murmur of assent among the gathered lords and notables.

‘You truly think this verse is worthy?’ Radomír raised his brows. ‘That being the case, I shall not stand in the way of the merit it deserves. Let it be read upon occasion at public functions.’

Although Ásbjörn’s poem wasn’t altogether to Radomír’s taste, nevertheless it gave him an idea.

Kráľ Radomír 4. was about to undertake the project for which he would be most remembered and celebrated.

 

[Midnite Duke]

How old is the Kral? A lot depends on Ostromir, how badly is he injured? Thanks

 

[Revan86]

How old is the Kral? A lot depends on Ostromir, how badly is he injured? Thanks

At this point in the game, Radomír is 52 to 54 years old.

Ostromír is severely injured. That carries with it a -4 penalty to prowess, a -2 penalty to health, a -10 penalty to attraction and a -25% penalty to fertility. It's the second tier of injury; the worst tier of injury is brutally mauled, which doubles the first three penalties and triples the penalty to fertility.

 

[Midnite Duke]

At this point in the game, Radomír is 52 to 54 years old.

Ostromír is severely injured. That carries with it a -4 penalty to prowess, a -2 penalty to health, a -10 penalty to attraction and a -25% penalty to fertility. It's the second tier of injury; the worst tier of injury is brutally mauled, which doubles the first three penalties and triples the penalty to fertility.

Ouch! I expect a 54yo father to outlive a 27yo severely injured son. Someone should double-speed Vojtech's training. Vojtech could start reigning a very young age.

 

[Idhrendur]

I've just nominated our author for WritAAR of the week! Go to the thread and celebrate him!

 

[Revan86]

Thank you, @Idhrendur! The nomination means a great deal coming from you.

 

[Revan86]

FORTY-THREE
Epic
2 January 1379 – 10 July 1381

I.
2 January 1379 – 26 September 1379

The first inkling Kráľ Radomír 4. had, that he wanted to undertake a project like this, came to him when he was first trying to win his Kaťuša’s heart—and not merely her all-too-willing body. He had memorised certain lines of an epic Russian poem and tied them to certain of his wife’s more charming attributes. As they had lain together naked on the Morava’s left bank, Radomír had thought about the long and noble Pavelkov lineage from which Kaťuša had come… and also about his own, which he was joining to hers.

There was a story to be told there. The first king of the Rychnovský line, the first which had borne his name, along with the cognomen ‘the Terrible’, had made a stab at it. So too had Bohodar Letopisár, whose work had been compiled and finished by his son Vojtech 1. But these pious monastic and prose histories tended to be a tad dry.

The second inkling had come with Kňažná Ctislava Mikulčická’s rebellion, and the ultimatum she had issued. Radomír had to admire her gumption. But her historical consciousness had been sorely lacking. The distortions of the history relating to Bohodar Slovoľubec and Queen Bratromila, in particular, had been particularly galling. If such was the history that continued to be told in Nitra, that was an insult not only to the royal honour, but also to the truth.

By that time, the vague outlines of the idea that had been forming in his mind had begun to take a more definite shape. But the final spur came with Ásbjörn’s meandering verse about legacies and universal destinies. Although that work had been—in Radomír’s personal opinion—a bit self-important, it nevertheless suggested the form that this historical project could take. There was to be an epic history of Moravia, from the days of Saints Cyril and Methodius forward.

It was to be called simply Pôvod: ‘Origin’.

For the purposes of writing this epic, Radomír wanted to draw upon the most inspired of bardic traditions. This being the preference, he naturally looked to the severané. And as it happened, there was an Orthodox bishop named Þórbrandr who currently held the crozier in Sliezsko, who hailed from a long line of Nordic skalds, the Snarfaringar. The bishop answered the summons to Olomouc, and soon appeared before Radomír.

‘Assuredly I can assist you,’ said the Norse bishop upon learning of the Kráľ’s ambition. ‘Are you looking for a Norse skaldic work in dróttkvætt, or a Moravian poem? It makes a difference, because the differences between the two languages and their æsthetic sensibilities would require me to take some… liberties with the metre and syntax if I were to work in a Slavic tongue.’

Radomír could recite well enough, but his knowledge of composition of such works was rather thin. However, he knew in this case what it was he wanted.

‘Take the liberties you require with the structure,’ Radomír told him. ‘This is to be a poem about Moravian history, the history of my fathers, and it should be in a tongue that Moravian folk understand.’

The Norse bishop nodded his understanding. This was a motivation he could well comprehend and endorse.

~~~

To get a sense of how the Pôvod originally went in its first canto, which was written by Bishop Þórbrandr Snarfaring, it may be wise to start off by showing the first few lines:

При брэхох пруда　　　　двая друзья яздили—
Гнеда глава за белоу, 　　　　бод-ламач а глиф-ковач.
Негад а неглядали 　　　　пред ними са вшак тучли:
Пастр проти пастрови 　　　　о славян-овце са били.
Выдржал всетко 　　　　святы старшик светло,
Вшак засягла Богодара 　　　　удером сильним.
Участь на панох-мнихох　　　　шелковей-Сагы зо Швабска,
Надворе Растиславом　　　　гадала Матылда.
Ей брань го поразила　　　　але не так ко замышляла:
Надмен был стрелой　　　　любви, кто го пронзил.​

In translation:

By the banks of the stream　　　　rode two companions—
Brown head and white, 　　　　spear-breaker and letter-smith.
They spoiled not for battle, 　　　　but clouds loomed before them:
Shepherd against shepherd　　　　for the Slav-sheep fought.
All things he endured,　　　　the holy and saintly elder,
But Bohodar was struck　　　　a mighty blow.
Serving the lords of monks　　　　a silk-Sága of Swabia,
In Rastislav’s courtyard　　　　Mechthild debated.
Her scorn did strike him　　　　though not as she thought:
Her arrogance an arrow　　　　of love, that wounded him.​

One can see the clear impress of Nordic poetic forms in this introduction, including kennings (such as ‘letter-smith’ and ‘holy and saintly elder’ for Saint Methodius) and alliterative or semi-alliterative forms, though clearly the syntax is not as tight as a Norse poem would be. The description of Mechthild as a ‘silk-Sága’—an almost pagan kenning—may be taken as an indication of the general level of piety (or rather, lack thereof) which Bishop Þórbrandr was wont to display. However, in terms of poetic craft, Bishop Þórbrandr cannot be faulted. The rest of the Pôvod does maintain this level and style of craft throughout.

~~~

Unfortunately, Bishop Þórbrandr was recalled to Silesia on urgent business after he had draughted the first shrift of the poem. Thankfully, his composition had gotten far enough along that Kráľ Radomír could begin giving some thought to the appearance of the final volume.

He had heard that at the house of prayer in Želiv, there lived a rather nearsighted old cœnobite who had become renowned as an iconographer. His icons were distributed throughout the country, though he sought never to be credited for his own work. He worked, as he said, for the glory of God alone. But the representations he crafted were exquisite and fine in detail, richly luminous, but always conforming with punctilious scruple to the rubrics by which Christ, the Theotokos, the saint or the angel depicted was to be shown. He did not embellish or follow his own will in the painting, but—he said—merely followed the dyes and the egg whites with his brush as the Holy Spirit guided them.

Such a monk would be a perfect addition to this project! Radomír had seen several examples of his iconographic work—steadfastly traditional, yet very much vibrant and alive. That sort of skill, even if turned to a more secular purpose, would still glorify God alone by its beauty!

As it turned out, the Želiv monastery also happened to boast Psalters and holy texts which had been carefully copied and illuminated, several of which were by the same monk. When the Kráľ asked the abbot at Želiv to reveal the name of the brother to him, the abbot would not. And when the Kráľ spoke of his intentions, after long deliberation, the abbot agreed to release this brother to him, upon one condition: that he not make known either his birth name or his monastic name to anyone, as long as the work remained in his hands.

And so it happened that this expert iconographer and illuminator was tasked with adding such marvellous and lavish illustrations to the Pôvod, as would come to be so reverently admired even by Ed Grebeníček’s history class at USMA, some 650 years later. But history does not remember the name of this brother. Radomír honoured his promise, and as he kept the Pôvod as a court treasure lifelong, he faithfully bore the secret of the anonymous iconographer’s identity to the grave.

At first, Radomír was unwilling to let any apart from his scribes chance even a peek at the Pôvod. But he soon enough relented when Kňažná Praksida herself came to him with the request. Praksida (who had praised highly enough Ásbjörn’s poem to the King), had decidedly more mixed feelings about this poem.

‘I don’t know, Radomír,’ Praksida shook her head. ‘As verse works go, this one is truly fine, but… don’t you think some of the details are a shade far-fetched? History itself ought to be icon of the world’s salvation, and if there is no truth in it, then it is little more than noise. I mean… come on. You don’t think Kráľ Bohodar 1.’s encounter with a holy fool on the streets of Olomouc actually happened, do you? Or that Blažena struck him?’

Radomír shrugged. ‘I suppose it could have happened…’

Praksida handed the volume back to him. ‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. If you ask me, some of the battle scenes could do with making a bit more believable, if you’re open to suggestions. I’m not saying to change Bishop Þórbrandr’s verse, mind, only to add an appendix or two.’

To this suggestion Radomír relented, and thus the appendices to the Pôvod were filled with corroborating detail and, where possible, the impress of witness and unimpeachable sourcing. Radomír noted to his grim satisfaction that the sources he uncovered from these investigations assured him a nigh-unassailable claim to the direct lordship of Sadec. But he was not so churlish as to rob his finest diplomat of his highest landed title!

Thus the Pôvod was complete—a masterwork of both literary and artistic craft, which despite the Norse colouration of its verse, nonetheless stood as a palpable, tangible monument to the blessings which God had bestowed upon the Rychnovských, and upon Moravia. The Pôvod, when it was completed, was displayed with great ceremony throughout the kingdom, as a testament to the ordained rulership of the House of Rychnovský over Moravia.

 

[Revan86]

Happy Easter for those who celebrate it today!​

 

[Midnite Duke]

When one commissions a family history, the truth sometimes falls behind family prestige. Thank you and I hope that you had a nice Easter.

 

[Bullfilter]

Just a note to say I’ve just started reading this, having meant to for some time given various glowing recommendations. I have rarely delved into the CK3 thread (mainly a time thing and that I haven’t played the game yet). But I’ve recently delved into EU IV, saw your new part 2 there, so launched backwards to give this a try. Have read the first five chapters and have found it beautifully written.

 

[Revan86]

II.
2 March 1381 – 28 September 1381

At last, after months of planning, the Kráľ departed for ‘Anṭâkiyâ, the city of God of the Eastern Mediterranean coast. The amount of reading he had done in preparing the Pôvod about how each of the Bohodars in his regal lineage had come to that city, and how they had admired and adored it, had sparked a fire deep in his soul to see the place with his own eyes, that had been so important to so many generations of Rychnovských. He had already made arrangements to travel with a merchant caravan bound eastward and south.

Katarína had not been happy at the prospect. It had taken a great deal of cajoling on Radomír’s part to convince her to let him leave her side, even for a matter of a few months of the year. It had also taken a bit of bribery. However, it didn’t take much to convince Radomír to oblige her.

‘Damasskoe šovkóvoe pokrývalo,’ the Kráľovná requested, giving her husband a naughty smirk. ‘A genuine one. Make sure it’s nicer than the one we already have.’

A rather sybaritic item, not to mention dear. But the look she was giving him, holding out the promise of shared pleasure on it upon his return, was convincing enough incentive.

‘You are incorrigible,’ Radomír stroked his wife’s cheek.

‘A good Kráľ shouldn’t blame his consort for things which are his fault alone,’ Katarína answered, turning her face in his hand and kissing his palm. ‘Only promise me that you’ll come back to me safely. Then you’re welcome to, ah… incorrige me all you want.’

There were other tidings from within the castle walls before Radomír set out. Ostromír, despite the severity of his lingering injuries and despite his wife being past forty, had managed to impregnate Imma for the fourth time. Imma, though she still disapproved of what she called Míra’s ‘foolish temerity’, had eventually softened her heart toward her husband, and had attended him at his bedside these past months with indefatigable regularity. Evidently, she hadn’t been content to just sit beside him at his bed! By the time Radomír set out on his journey, Imma was there as well to see him off, alongside Katarína and his children, and her belly was already beginning to grow round.

The merchant caravan set out happily enough. However, as they rounded Lake Balaton and headed southeast through the Moldavian lands, the merchants and their guards began to dwindle. By the time they left Pest, where many of the merchants were bound in the first place, the members of the caravan had fallen to merely a tithe of their former numbers as they left Olomouc. And by the time they reached the border with Eastern Rome, there were less than half a dozen men altogether, Kráľ Radomír included.

However, Radomír decided on his own to continue, whether with or without the arms of those with him. He was going to where God had been glorified in many saints. He would trust in God as his protector.

He made his way through Moldavia thus with his tiny retinue of five men, and their course took them through the towns of Arad and Turnu Severin, which was the last outpost on the Moldavian side before they entered the marchlands of Eastern Rome. They were greeted by a rather haggard elderly guard at the pass, and were ushered on toward Storgos, where they did not tarry long. There wasn’t much at Storgos beyond a taverna and a stable, and they were eager to push on toward the City. Through a mountain range and into a valley lush with roses, and then up through another mountain range before they came to the narrow jut of land which lies between the Middle Sea and the Euxine. Radomír paused to admire the view, but was quickly drawn onward toward the grand sights and splendour of the great Constantinopolis.

Here they remained for a few days. Radomír took leave of his five companions here, for they wanted to stay in the city for several months or a year—and Radomír didn’t think he could bear being apart from his Katarína that long! He did go into the market to look at the various wares on hand, and was greeted by the riot of exotic wafts of spices and concoctions from as far afield as Abyssinia and India, and even further afield. He sought out the silks and brocades, to see if there were any that would meet his wife’s demanding requirements for a new bedcover. In the end, he decided against purchasing one in the City itself… at least for now. He’d get nearer Damascus for a better chance of finding the genuine article—and there would always be the return journey!

He ferried over the Bosporos Strait, and continued his journey southward through Asia Minor. His pilgrim’s path took him far afield of the sight of man, though the Eastern Romans had long since been accustomed to foot traffic through these parts on the way to the holy places, and there was always at least one wayhouse or taverna near at hand by nightfall—or if there was not, he would at least be given such warning and advised to stay. Radomír was not always successful at hiding the fact that he was a king of a distant land—and not few were the girls of custom plying their trade in the eaves who sought to gain their own advantage by such a connexion. And Radomír had to own that these Greek girls could be stunningly pretty. But he had his own wife at home waiting for him, and she was more than enough for him. He contented himself with a frank gaze and a smile and passed them by.

As he came to the town of Dorylaion, however, his eyes met a strange sight. A man dressed in a long cloak and cowl was haranguing the townsfolk from atop a tall rock, prophesying doom. Radomír drew closer to hear the man as he spoke.

‘And who shall be delivered into that shining grace which no man can imagine? And who shall depart accursed from before the Dread Judgement Seat, and go into the everlasting River of Fire that lies before it? I tell you clearly—I have seen it! I have seen it with my own eyes! The day draws nigh, and it can be seen from the great signs written in the heavens!’

And on he went. Radomír folded his arms. He had to admit that the man was quite the talented performer. However, his yellow beard and features showed him to be a Moravian. And what’s more, Radomír knew him as Drahoslav the Deft: Olomouc card-sharp, die-fixer, confidence man, and—though it could never be proven even by the king’s most experienced constables—cutpurse and petty thief. Here, he might be able to pull off a nice little racket as a mendicant holy man. It was just his bad luck that he happened to run across the king who happened to live in and rule his old hometown.

‘Ahoj, Drahoslav!’ cried the king with a smirk. ‘Fancy seeing you here, in that get-up!’

Drahoslav performed a perfect double-take, very nearly falling off his rock in his panic, and ultimately falling to his knees before the king. As he did so, an assortment of his tools of trade—loaded dice, packs of cards, cups and shells, twine, small tubs of animal fat, and a couple of slender throwing-knives and shivs which were common use among criminals everywhere—came clattering out of his attire and fell on the ground all around his perch in plain view of the throng of Greek townsfolk of Dorylaion.

‘Your Majesty! Please don’t take me back in chains!’

‘Oh, I’m here in quite a private capacity,’ the king stuck his tongue firmly into his cheek. ‘On the other hand, it seems that the good folks of Dorylaion might have a few words they’d like to say to you. If I were you, I’d apply to the commander of this theme and throw yourself on his mercy—he’s like to be far more forgiving than these folks would be. Good luck!’

And with that the king went on. What became of Drahoslav the Deft, he never knew thereafter, but he certainly never came back to Olomouc.

At last Radomír came to the city of Antioch on the Orontes, which still as often went by its Arabic name of ‘Anṭâkiyâ. The goal of his strivings now lay within view from the hilltop by which he approached, and Radomír felt not only the call of the city where the followers of Christ were first called ‘Christians’, but also the great weight of his own family’s history. He was placing his feet where Bohodar Slovoľubec had walked, and Bohodar Letopisár. What had they seen when they had come to this place? What had stirred their heart that had called them here? Had their prayers to God been answered in their sojourn? And now here he was, following them. It was not a common feeling, for Radomír to be humbled. But he was humbled now.

Radomír descended from the slopes of Mount Silpius and went into the bright, sun-bleached city itself, with its high apartments, riverside promenade and bustling souq. He visited the great sunken Dome, as well as the Church of St Peter, and he had gone to visit the Patriarch of Antioch as well, and received a blessing and a token from the Patriarch’s hand.

And indeed—he found a merchant in the souq who traded in genuine damask silks. A cover for a king-sized bed? The Syrian merchant held up his fingers. Radomír managed to haggle him down three of those fingers—to well under half what he would have spent in Constantinople for the same. Radomír felt the texture of the fabric. Soft and sumptuous, with a fine velvety finish… oh, yes. Katarína would surely be pleased with this.

Radomír stayed a fortnight in Antioch, and when he had seen all there was to see, and attended the Divine Liturgy several times in the space of his stay at both the Patriarch’s see and at the Church of Saint Peter, he returned home to Olomouc by the same way he’d come.

Kráľ Radomír had left Olomouc on the ides of March, and he returned upon the turn of the New Year, on the calends of September. As expected, Katarína greeted him with even greater enthusiasm than usual, which she redoubled upon receiving the gift he’d brought her. And there was even happier news.

After his return, Imma was drawing very near her due day. Indeed, it was less than a week after his return that his forty-one-year-old daughter-in-law’s water broke, and she went into labour. It was the wisdom of the old wives that any birth past thirty-five is bound to be difficult. Also, Imma had been gripped with fear each time she had gotten pregnant, that the same end might claim her as that which had claimed her dear friends and sisters Vratislava and Taimi.

But Nîjâr was there, together with her solid good sense and firm-but-caring bedside manner. She guided Imma with gentle but insistent encouragement through the excruciation. And by the end of it, there came into the world a girl living, and the mother herself in health and on the path to recovering.

Imma and Ostromír named the girl Dobrohneva, whose scalp soon grew thick with dark, lustrous sable-brown hair. It was abundantly clear, however, that beneath the dark locks the little girl bore the deft and curious mind of her Rychnovský grandfather.

 

[Midnite Duke]

In the portrait, the king seems to be aging more gracefully than his mate. Dobrohneva may be a star of the future. It is wonderful how you take the same events and give them a fresh slant. Thanks for sharing another voyage.

Any idea in the 1300s, how much would be by sea and how much overland?