TWENTY-SIX
Determined
30 January 985 – 5 November 985
Radomír’s brow clouded slightly as
Knieža Bogöri stood before him in private audience. The
knieža spoke softly to thwart the ears of the walls.
‘Svätoslav Mojmírovec-Hont of Žvolen sends his regards, Majesty, and also sends back the Velehrad-educated priests whom you sent into his territory to receive his Confession. They report that Svätoslav remains on the same course he was, devoted to the Latin Mass.’
‘And the other?’
Bogöri cleared his throat. ‘Svätopluk Mojmírovec-Hont seems… more amenable, your Majesty, but he has stipulated some… conditions to his reception that he will discuss with you at some later point. Will you agree to these?’
‘It might be the easier,’ Radomír remarked dryly, ‘if I knew what those conditions were.’
Bogöri sighed. ‘The Mojmírovci have long been trouble, sire.’
‘Speaking of trouble,’ Radomír’s voice fell to an ominous hush. ‘These… “rides” that are happening in Milčané. These… “musters”, these “exercises” that are happening in the north. Would you care to explain them to me, Bogöri Gavrilovič?’
‘Explain, milord?’ Bogöri’s eyes grew round with innocence. ‘Nothing to explain. Nothing out of the ordinary. Given the troubles we’ve been having on the northern march—’
Radomír slammed his open palm down on the table in front of him, causing Bogöri to start. But when he went on, his voice was as eerily level as ever.
‘Such “troubles”,
knieža, are a matter for Lada
Erínysa. Not for you alone. Or perhaps you think you’d be better fending off the heathen by yourself?’
‘I don’t… well… I wasn’t…’
Radomír cut off Bogöri with a raised hand.
‘Speak plain to me,
brother. You served my father faithfully and with distinction. I expect you so to deal with me. Now: if you tell me that the northern troubles are all that these exercises are about, then that’s good enough for me. I take you at your word. In that case, however, you would not mind renewing the oath of service you swore to my father, in public, in the High Hall—perhaps with
my sister Mislava, your lady wife, as witness?’
Although Radomír had little knack for deception and could often
seem a gull, there was a certain cold steel underneath that placid exterior. Bogöri was cornered now, and he knew it. If he accepted to renew his oath to the Crown, it would kick the legs out from under any plans for rebellion he might be harbouring. But if he refused, he would be openly admitting to plotting sedition, and his lands would be subject to seizure before he could flee and reach them.
‘Very well, your Grace,’ the Bulghar bowed, a trifle stiffly. ‘I would be most happy to oblige you.’
‘You are dismissed,’ Radomír told him.
The king glowered at Bogöri’s back as he left the room. The Mojmírovci had submitted, at least formally, to Olomouc’s overlordship, but it was clear that they still relished their autonomy and perhaps still harboured ambitions to take his throne from him by force. Bogöri Srednogorski, as well, did not respect him as he had Pravoslav, and would doubtless have taken matters into his own hands had Radomír not called him to task. The Mojmírovci were one matter. But it was bewildering and detestable to Radomír, to whom trust came naturally, to be faced with such a clandestine threat to his rule from a man he had long considered a friend and comrade.
‘
Have you no feeling for this family? Are you so determined to be the ruin of the Rychnovských?’
Radomír winced as, in his mind, he could hear his father shouting at him so once more. He could very nearly feel the sting of his father’s hand upon his cheek.
No. Radomír was determined
not to be the ruin of the Rychnovských, and he knew that taking Bogöri’s oath in front of his family and vassals would not be enough. He had to do something: a bold gesture, an assertion of power. It
had to be so. With few exceptions,
all of his vassals needed to brought sharply to heel, and to learn exactly
who was master in Veľká Morava.
~~~
‘Prohor! Prohor!’
‘I am here, Mother.’
Bogna ran across the wooden floor of the hall toward the voice. Upon seeing her precious son, so much the image of the husband she had lost to sudden illness, she flew to him and hugged him close. Prohor gently but firmly extricated herself from Bogna’s grasp.
‘Mother,’ he demanded, ‘what is this about?’
‘Prohor…’ Bogna told him, ‘The
Kráľ of Moravia has made us a generous gift, as well as offering to take you personally into his wardship. What do you think about this idea?’
Prohor jutted out a well-bred chin. ‘And whyever should he not? A Bijelahrvatskić should
always be welcome in Olomouc. Haven’t you always said so yourself, Mother?’
Bogna stifled a small gasp of dismay. Prohor was a bright, attentive and serious child indeed, and she had always taken great care to remind him of the exaltedness of his family line, the sacred duty in his charge toward the White Croats of the Carpathians, and the hopes that they all placed in him. Sadly, it had gone a bit to his head, and he’d developed something of a swagger as a result. Perhaps it would be a good thing for him to be cared for by a man above his station, so that he might learn a bit of humility.
‘In fact, it’s quite agreeable to me,’ Prohor went on loftily. ‘I’d always wondered where Father spent his years when he was my age. This will be a good opportunity to expand my knowledge.’
Prohor Mutimírić and his mother together made the journey from Šariš to Olomouc, and they were both greeted with embraces by Radomír and Raina. His mother Bogna then embraced her son, and kissed him affectionately on each cheek.
‘Prohor, do take care,’ she told him.
‘Never worry, Mother,’ her son told her. ‘I always do.’
‘Radomír,’ said Bogna, ‘I charge you in the name of Our Lord, and upon your father’s and grandfather’s honour, to look after my son as though he were your own.’
‘Never fret,’ Radomír told Bogna. ‘Mutimír was my best friend, while he was still with us. I shall see to it that your son and his shall be treated with nothing but the best.’
Bogna took the king aside for a moment and out of Prohor’s hearing. ‘I also would charge you,
not to be too lenient with him, as I fear I may have been. Prohor has something of a… haughty streak which I’m hoping being with you in your court will temper.’
‘I shall bear that in mind, madam,’ Radomír assured her.
Prohor only just had enough time to get acquainted with Jakub, Radoslav and Pravoslav before the
Kráľ made plans to call upon
Hrabě Velemír in Praha with his family. Prohor was some three years older than Radoslav, and five years older than Pravoslav. And he managed to alienate them both when, having been kindly invited by the
milí malí čerti to come play with them, he airily declared that he far preferred his studies to such ‘babyish romps’.
With Jakub it was a different matter. Jakub wasn’t in a particularly good mood when Prohor first saw him. He had only just returned from a sojourn in Lotharingia, one which (judging from his dudgeon) had been more of a chore than a pleasure. During that time, Jakub spent a great deal of time in the company of his father. Behind closed doors. Prohor was not one to stoop to
snooping, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Jakub and his father were talking about for so long.
Jakub was more than twice Prohor’s age. And
big. And he had a son of his own. Jakub’s prowess in battle was legendary: the Bijelahrvatskić lad had heard the stories of his putting to flight an entire wing of heathen riders
just by roaring. Prohor would never have admitted this to anyone, but he went rather in awe of Jakub.
In any event, very soon all of them, along with Raina and Dobromíla, set off by carriage for Velemír’s summer-house in Suchdol, just outside the busiest of the Bohemian towns.
When they lit down, they walked up to the fence, outside which a scrawny dog stood, wagging its tail with its tongue lolling out expectantly. Prohor started at the sight of the animal, and muttered under his tongue: ‘Filthy beast.’
‘When I was growing up with Mutimír,’ the king remarked mildly, ‘I remember he and my brother would get into trouble for
stealing sausages from the pantry to feed the stray cats in Olomouc.’
Prohor checked in his stride. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but the oblique rebuke stung him. Although he didn’t remember his father very well, he
did remember his gentleness and generosity. And carrying on the family tradition and upholding the family honour was still of paramount importance to Prohor. But still… such a raggedy,
gašparko-looking mongrel. Who knew where the mangy thing had been? Its ribs were visible, its muzzle was dirty, it had several long ugly scars along its flanks, and it clearly had fleas. But upon closer inspection, the eyes that still stared at Prohor were shiny, expectant and forgiving. Prohor muttered something else under his breath as he took a bit of jerked meat—his snack from the road—from his scrip and tossed it to the waiting dog. The animal caught the morsel in its mouth and wagged its tail happily at Prohor.
Radomír caught his new ward’s gesture out of the corner of his eye, and approved.
The valiant Velemír Abovský and his family were there to greet his liege and welcome him and his retinue into his summer-house, where a sumptuous feast had already been set. There was already a trencher of fine wheat bread at each place, and a number of different fragrant and pungent wheels of cheese, whose sweet and sharp and savoury waft tantalised tongues to watering. Platters were heaped high with delicate filets of herring, silver skin and snow-white meat gleaming in the candlelight. There were soups with fish and fowl, lentils and turnips, wafting with hints of bay and ginger. Honey-glazed ham, boiled salted pork, dumplings drizzled richly over with tart purple
žahúr, cabbages stuffed with tender twice-cooked pork, slow-simmered mutton with caramelised onions, richly-spiced fat links of sausage, sweet pastries stuffed with apples and pears and dewberries and honeyed hazelnuts… Radomír was duly impressed with the eight-course luncheon that his vassal had spread out for them. But more so once the king, having bowed and crossed himself as Velemír’s chaplain said the Lord’s Prayer over the food, set down with his knife to eat.
Truly Velemír’s cook, whomever it was, knew her business. The taste of each dish held true and deep to the delicious smells that rose from them. The meat was so tender that it seemed to melt into the king’s mouth, diffusing its rich savour slowly over his tongue. The muffled noises of gastronomic delectation and appreciation that came from the other diners of every age affirmed over what his own senses were telling him. From soup to sausage, from lentils to apple crisp, Radomír thoroughly enjoyed the entire repast.
‘Dear me, Velemír,’ Radomír dipped his bearded chin as he suppressed a burp, ‘your household truly has outdone itself! My compliments – my most sincere compliments!’
‘You’re too gracious, Majesty. I daresay, though, I haven’t done too badly this time,’ Velemír told him. Velemir’s slender, long-haired wife Zlata gazed expectantly in his direction, but when he said nothing further her mouth turned down sourly, and she stood and asked to be excused.
‘There’s no trouble, I trust?’ Radomír asked his host.
‘Nothing I can’t handle, never fear,’ Velemír answered. ‘Tell me, though—is it true that you’re planning a campaign against Užhorod? The opportunity certainly presents itself.’
The bold
hrabě glanced meaningfully at Prohor, who was still enjoying a slice of sausage.
‘Perhaps,’ Radomír answered his vassal with noncommittal ease. ‘In due time.’
‘Oh, really?’ Velemír raised an eyebrow and gave him a sly smile. ‘Your father, God rest him, would have leapt on such a chance.’
‘Well. I am
not my father.’ Radomír said it softly, and placed ever so slight an emphasis there, but the effect was bracing.
Velemír, unsure whether he should pursue the matter further, called out: ‘
More ale!’
The meal continued late into the afternoon, and the drinking along the long table, long after that. Velemír and Radomír stood up drinking long after their respective families had retired to their corners of the summer house and dozed off, and some more meaningful talk between lord and vassal could be entertained, the two of them sitting side-by-side. Velemír, it was clear, had sipped rather too heavily at his vessel, and even where he sat his shoulders were swaying and his cheeks were rosy.
‘And how about your ventures in the other direction?’ asked Velemír. ‘Scuttlebutt is that your Jakub made a bit of a state visit to the Lotharings lately.’
‘Mm,’ Radomír let out a disappointed sigh.
‘Didn’t go well, eh?’ Velemír chuckled, then waved a drink-clumsy hand. ‘Never fret. Lotharingia’s a long way off. Your son will’ve benefitted from the exercise, won’t he? Ohh—ohhp—’
Radomír gave a cry of alarm, but it was too late. Velemír had leaned too far in his direction. There was a ‘
hurk’ and a heavy splash. Much of the fine feast which Velemír had presided over, or at least that part which he’d partaken of, now wound up in a slick on Radomír’s robe.
‘Ohh—liege! I’m—urrp—I’m sorry—’
Velemír clearly expected Radomír to fix him with a cold and withering remark, but to his surprise, Radomír laughed out loud and clapped him heavily on the shoulder. The sick
hrabě gave a nervous chuckle himself.
‘Never fret, Velemír. This useless bore of a rag of mine never impressed the nobles when it was clean!’
A gust of wind blew through the door as it banged open, interrupting the two tipplers and rousing all of the sleepers from their corners. Into Velemír’s summer-house strode a Milčanian Sorb, gasping for breath.
‘What is it, man?’ asked Radomír, standing tall in despite of the unwanted décor Velemír had added to his attire. ‘Speak up—you clearly have something to say.’
The Sorb composed himself. ‘Lady Lydia—the heathen mistress of Brehna—has sent her forces over the march into the Spreewald. They are laying siege to the fastness there. She sends you the following message, and bade me give it to you word for word.’ The poor man winced as he knew what he was about to say had been phrased thus precisely to offend. ‘
Kráľ Radomír—you are weak and I am strong. There are no other grounds needful for me to come and take what I wish from you.’
Radomír straightened his shoulders, levelled his jaw, and fixed the Sorb with an icy glare.
‘Can you take a message back to her? Word for word?’
‘I can, liege,’ the Sorb answered him.
Radomír’s roust was level as he spoke. Four words only.
‘
Chčeš vojnu? Dam to.’
