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I. 7. Husbands, Wives and Lovers


The youngest of us three Poraj sons was now married. That meant there was no longer any reason for Mama to stay in Kalisz. I asked her to come back to Poznan. It had been her first home, it was where she belonged. Besides, I had work for her to do.

The Mazoviecki children had grown up. It was time for them to get married and have their own families. Easier said than done, as I discovered.

“Nobody will have them,” I explained to Mama. “I’ve asked several good people and none of them will have them. What do they think they are, lepers?”

“Your father promised Lord Mazoviecki that he would provide for his children as befitting their -- well, their former station,” she said.

“You’ll have to see to it, Mama, I’ve already tried, and there are other more pressing things for me to do than play match-maker.”

“Leave it to me.”

She was as good as her word. After conferring with the Spymaster and with Archbishop Gniezdno, she wrote five or six letters.

“Count Poppo?” I searched my memory. “Who on earth is that?”

“A fine young man, except for his name, from the very noble house of von Weimar. He rules in sunny Krain between the Alps and the Adriatic Sea. Anastazja was delighted with the idea.”

“And Anna is going to marry Wistan of Godwin? Is that the Godwins of England?”

“Wistan’s father is Count of Oxford. Wistan’s not the heir, but one never knows.”

“The Godwins of England, I can’t believe it. I thought Anna didn’t want to leave Poland?”

“When your choice is either emigrate or die an old maid, there’s nothing more to be said.”

“And little Bedzimir?”

“Little grown up Bedzimir is going to a little barony in Italy. Carola di Cervia will inherit, the Baron is poorly and not expected to last another year. He didn’t even insist on a matrilineal contract.”



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“Thank you, Mama, thank you! But now I have another mission for you. It’s Dobrogost.”

The son of Jakub, the former Marshal, had also come of age. We knew each other well. His being a dwarf in no way diminished him in the eyes of anyone in the family. But close contact with his liege had only produced feelings of envy and hurt. After my accession, these had mushroomed into outright rivalry. His presence at Court was intolerable for both of us. He had to go.

“Leave it to me,” Mama said once again. Two weeks later, Dobrogost was packed and out the door.

“Manresa?”

“It’s in Spain,” Mama answered.

“Do they know about his... size?”

“Of course. It’s all right. But on condition of a matrilineal clause. Dobby still gets to be addressed as Baron. Now do I have leave to spend time with my grand-daughter?”



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I embraced my mother. Stanislawa had given birth to a beautiful little girl. We named her Helena. No harelip! In addition, civilization was being brought to the new counties of my domain, and the Steward was (slowly) bringing more gold into our coffers.



******​



The King gave a New Year’s Banquet in 1094. We were of course invited. After all the kindness and generosity he had already shown us, it was difficult to imagine that our situation could improve. But improve it did. I spent many an hour in his company, in leisure and in affairs of the Realm. At the end of a prolonged visit, I couldn’t help but look on His Majesty as a true mentor. As for the King, he declared himself my friend.

It was some months later when the wheel of Fortune began to turn the other way.

My Chancellor had passed away. My brother Count Bruno had given proof of remarkable talent in the business of government. I named him Chancellor of Greater Poland. It was thanks to him that I began to understand.

“Is everything all right with you and Stanislawa?” he asked one day.

The most dreaded, and perchance most often heard, rhetorical question. He said it in private, of course. But how many people had already noticed the change in behaviour? Stanislawa would go to Volhynia once in a while, but that was not what was amiss. It was something more serious.



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I had my suspicions. But there was no concrete evidence. I was paralysed with both anger and humiliation. I hinted to Stanislawa that I knew what was going on. She replied that she would never dream of doing anything so demeaning. Then she laughed in my face.

By this time the army was ready for another campaign. The Pomeranian territory of Szczecin was the next logical target of conquest. I called up all our men. The Pomeranians could muster as many men as we could. They had the advantage of their homeland and our foreseeable attrition. The horn of battle was sounded anyway. Wasn’t I Duke Laurentius, the brilliant Organiser? I would conquer the territory not so much by head-on battle as by leading the enemy into traps and crushing them.

As it happened, Fortune’s wheel turned my way again.



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The arrival of the Royal Cavalry spelt utter defeat for the heathen Pomeranians. Their High Chief, however, still had one trick up his sleeve.



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With their declaration of conversion to the banner of the one and only Redeemer, and an impertinent summons to cease hostilities in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, we were obliged to abandon our war of conquest.

I returned to Court in a sullen mood. To my surprise, Stanislawa was waiting for me. She was full of apology and tenderness. Her apparent change of attitude conquered my pride. She stayed with me the whole winter of 1097 - 1098. At Christmas she was certain she was with child again.

Stanislawa travelled to Volhynia at the end of January. Thus it happened that I was alone with Mama when she quietly sank into her final sleep. Alone, that is, except for Adèle, Laurentius, Éric and Helena. Mama was now where she wanted to be.



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The beginning of March brought not only the promise of spring but troubling rumours.



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The whispers, the attitudes, the gift of a duchy, the absences, the shadow of plotted murder. Suddenly, it hit me. Boleslaw. My wife had become the mistress of the King.



******​
 
A dangerous position for Laurentius. Here's hoping he and his family survive what this could bring.
 
A dangerous position for Laurentius. Here's hoping he and his family survive what this could bring.

Thanks, Idhrendur! You better believe that Duke Laurentius is trying to watch his own back!
 
I. 8. Secrets From the Past


My wife returned to Poznan to have the baby. It was a boy, a most beautiful and lively little thing. He received the name Victor. Then I busied myself with affairs of Court.

The rumours out of the Orient that so frightened the folk in Krakow proved to be grounded in fact. Confirmation came from the mouths of holy men and women in exodus from the lands of the Apostles.



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Pope Hormisdas took those accounts very seriously. Out of the Holy See, early in the year 1099, came a Papal Bull. Filial love for the homeland of the One True Faith demanded concrete expression. All men, whether of high or low birth, were called to bear witness to the power of the Holy Cross of Christ our Saviour, and noble lords especially were exhorted to defend the sacred heritage. A new era was dawning.



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There were, however, other assassins much closer to home to preoccupy us. Kaiser Heinrich, never one to recoil from bloodshed, was again invading to the southwest. This time it was for the sake of one of his vassals -- who was claiming the Republic of Genoa! As if he didn’t have enough claims of his own to drool over! The Emperor put everything he had into that war. The wealthy -- but weak -- merchant republic was vanquished by spring.



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Is there any place on earth he doesn’t have a claim to?




In Krakow, Queen Wyszeslawa passed away suddenly.

“Nothing is being said overtly,” the Spymaster informed me. “The walls of the Palace echo nonetheless with questions as to the mysterious circumstances of Her Majesty’s demise.”

Unclean visions of Stanlawa’s dalliance with the King came unbidden at all hours. With the Queen out of the way, they would have that much more freedom. And what about me? Was I in the way? Could a royal friendship stand up to a royal romance? Was Stanislawa lost to me forever?



******​



It was a dark and misty morning in November. As was my wont of recent, I was alone, so I thought, taking a meditative stroll in one of the inner courtyards. All at once, I was not alone.



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“Who are you? Come here!” I cried.

But the intruder had vanished. I picked up the book. It was a slim volume, the folios within glued inexpertly together, the copyhand writing amateur. It was a copy of The Martyrdom of Saint Adalbert of Prague. As I turned the next folio, a note fell out onto the ground. I picked it up.



My Lord, your life is in peril. Come to the tailor’s
shop, incognito, street of Saint Mary’s Church, at
twelve bells, any day. Come alone.



I stared at the note, unbelieving. What was this mystery? Was my life in peril? My thoughts flew instantly to my wife. Had it then come to this? Was there a plot afoot to get me out of the way? But could I rely on an anonymous note? Who was warning me? Why couldn’t they warn me right here? Was this a trap?

The more I pondered over it, the more I realized that I couldn’t simply ignore the note.

I was at the shop three days later. Saint Mary’s Church was striking twelve -- midday, obviously, not midnight, hence the need for disguise -- when I pushed open the door to the dinghy establishment. My features were well hidden under a fur-lined hooded cloak. Thank goodness for November chill!

“Yes, what is it?” The question came from a small elderly man seated at a table sorting out a box full of loose buttons.

I was at a loss as to what to answer.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said eventually.

“A tailor perhaps?” But there was no trace of joviality in the man’s voice.

“No -- I mean, yes.” I stopped.

“Which one is it then?” The man had stopped fiddling with the buttons and was staring at me.

This is absurd, I said to myself. Whoever wanted to warn me would have to come to me. I turned to leave.



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Fear and fury broke over me in succeeding waves. The little man was incredibly strong.

“Let me go!” I gasped. “The note! Saint Adalbert!”

Mother Mary, or my guardian angel, had come to my help. I had said the magic words, it seemed. The man loosened his grip. His hand went from twisting my arm to my right hand. Then he was kneeling before me, his brow pressed against the hem of my cloak.

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace, a thousand pardons! No injury was meant! But I had to make sure it was Your Grace!”

“What in the devil’s name is going on here?” I exploded.

“There is someone to see you,” the tailor replied. “Upstairs.”

Naturally, there was no sign of any staircase. But the tailor, if that’s what he was, went to a cupboard and pushed on a shelf which seemed to fold into the wall. There was a faint click. The wall next to the cupboard opened. It was a door.



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Seated in one of a pair of cushioned chairs was a cleric. He wore the robes of a cleric of the Canons of St Augustine. He rose as I entered.

“Your Grace,” he said in a deep bass voice as he made a very profound bow.

“Again I say, what in the devil’s name is going on here?” was my greeting.

“A matter of life and death, my Lord,” the canon replied sombrely. “Will my Lord be seated?” He indicated the chair next to him.

I sat.

“Did my Lord perchance peruse the book about Saint Adalbert?” he asked softly, seating himself.

“What does Saint Adalbert have to do with any of this?” I demanded.

“The good Duke Przemyslaw, my Lord’s father, was beset by the question of the Poraj family’s origins,” said the cleric. “The answer to that question lies in the martyrdom of Saint Adalbert.”

“Will you speak clearly, sir, instead of beating around the bush?” My blood was on fire. What was he hinting at? Was Papa -- was I -- connected with Poland’s greatest saint?

“Saint Adalbert’s murderers believed -- or rather, hoped -- that they did away with the holy man’s entire family, that is the bishop himself, after first dealing with all his brothers. In fact, one family member survived.”

“That old legend?” I scoffed. “The brother who should have been massacred but who wasn’t?”

“As my Lord says: a legend,” said the cleric. “The truth is always much more simple. No, there was no imaginary escape. But there was a child. A son. From that son is the Poraj family descended, my Lord.”

A son born in holy wedlock, the cleric continued, but a secret one. Not yet born when the massacre took place in Prague. But of the father’s identity there was no doubt. The child’s mother did not reveal herself. For one, to whom could the girl reveal herself? All of Saint Adalbert’s siblings had been slaughtered. Adalbert himself, and his half-brother Gaudentius, had fled to Hungary. (They would later be murdered by heathens -- hired by the murderers in Prague.) Secondly, it became common knowledge that the murderers were looking for any surviving members of Saint Adalbert’s family. The girl took fright. She abandoned the child into the care of a nunnery in Prague. But she told the nuns who the child’s father was. The nuns spirited the child out of Prague to a sister convent in Poznan. The child, whose name was Jan, grew up at the convent where he became apprentice, then head gardener. He married, and fathered one child, Mieszko, born in 1018. Mieszko married later in life. His wife was a farmer’s daughter from near Poznan. The girl died in 1046 giving birth to Mieszko’s only child, a son. That son was Przemyslaw. The boy was barely two years old when his father died of pneumonia. Before dying, Mieszko confided the boy to the care of the nuns who had taken care of his own father Jan.

“Enter the Princess Elzbieta, aunt of King Boleslaw. She wanted a child to care for, but the Lord had not blessed her with children of her own. The nuns gave Przemyslaw to the Princess, which is how he came to be brought up at Court.”

I sat silently for some minutes. It was a lot to digest in one sitting. My head was swimming with questions. The first:

“How do you know all this?”

It was the cleric’s turn to look uncomfortable.

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“I command you to tell me.”

“I implore my Lord’s forgiveness, but I cannot obey,” said the cleric. “Words spoken in holy confession, as my Lord well knows.”

“It appears to me that you have already revealed a glut of secrets! But so be it. How comes it then that this information is for me a matter of life and death?”

“In this year of grace 1099, it is one hundred and four years since Saint Adalbert’s brothers were murdered in Prague,” said the cleric. “Yet they are still looking for members of that family!”

“But how do you know this? And who might they be exactly?”

“That I do not know.”

“Then why should I believe any of this? Why should anyone?”

“It is indeed hard to believe.” The cleric looked down at his hands. “There is no real proof of what I have told my Lord just now. I mentioned holy confession. What is said in the sacrament may not be revealed. But what is intended for publication may become known to anyone.”

He reached into his sleeve and produced a sheet of parchment.

“It is not proof. But it’s all we have,” he said, handing me the document.

It was a letter addressed to the King. The man who wrote it was asking the King’s pardon for snuffing the life out of an innocent child, on the orders of his masters, because, they believed, he was of the blood of the hated bishop of Prague.

“Duke Przemyslaw’s mother was a farmer’s daughter. Her parents had a farm only a few leagues from Poznan. The girl’s mother was very much alarmed when the my Lord’s father died so prematurely. She feared that the Duke’s true identity had been discovered.”

“It was an accident.”

“Possibly.”

“You suggest not? You suggest it was murder dressed to look like an accident? One hundred and four years have passed since Prague! The murderers of my ancestors are long since dead and buried!”

“Without a doubt, my Lord.”

“Therefore--”

But there was no therefore. The murderers were dead. So who would be going around murdering innocent children suspected of being related to Saint Adalbert?

“The murderers, they were--”

The cleric remained silent. The murderers, according to all the chronicles of the period, were henchmen of the lord of Prague. The House of Przemyslids.

“I should speak with you further on this,” I said, rising.

“As my Lord wills. But let my Lord speak of this to no one! There is still a chance, however slim, that they do not know for certain my Lord’s identity. They must never know!”

He was right. If there really was a band of henchmen who believed that Papa was of the same family as "the hated bishop of Prague", then my life -- and Alexander’s, and Bruno’s, and our children’s lives -- were truly in grave peril. But then, if Papa had been murdered, why had they done nothing for the past nineteen years?



******​



I told Alexander and Bruno everything, but only after having them swear an oath on the Holy Scriptures, in the presence of my Court Chaplain, that they would never divulge what I was about to tell them. Together we concurred that silence was the best policy. Only if it were to become evident that we were targeted for extermination would we break that silence.

“But who could be behind such a scheme?” Bruno asked. “And why? It’s too fantastic.”

The why remained a mystery. But the who -- that was clear. It wasn't the hired hands who had an agenda. That was the prerogative of those who hired them in the first place: the House of Przemyslids.

The unknown man’s written confession addressed to the King wasn’t proof, but it was enough. There was no reason to suspect a forgery. Why forge a confession? A real forgery would have named names. As it stood, it fit into the puzzle of a secret plan over a century old, and an identity kept hidden until now. But Przemyslids had definitely commandeered the massacre of Saint Adalbert and his brothers -- the father of the House of Poraj amongst them. It was time to exact payment for that monstrous deed.

“How goes it with His Majesty of Bohemia these days?” I asked the Spymaster in a private conversation.

“King and Queen of Bohemia fare well, Sire. The Lord has blessed them with four children of most pleasing countenance.”

“Their youngest was a son, what was his name?”

“Prince Konrad, to be sure.”

“Indeed, Prince Konrad. I have written and sealed a number of letters. See that they are delivered most discreetly into the hands of a certain cleric in Prague.”

“Sire!”



******



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******​
 
That's quite the revelation. And a conspiracy too, it seems!
 
That's quite the revelation. And a conspiracy too, it seems!

A desperately difficult task, this conspiracy. :blush: There are a lot of Przemyslids running around! I'm guessing that in the 12th century, it wouldn't occur to a nobleman to wipe out the whole of such a large House, but that he would concentrate on individuals he had issues with. So I might end up going that route.
 
I. 9. Eyes Set On A Dynasty


In the weeks after putting into motion the wheels of my murderous vendetta, I was beset by doubt. Was this a good idea? The House of Przemyslids had murdered my ancestor, a brother of Saint Adalbert; they had intended to wipe out the entire bloodline. In return, I was giving them a taste of their own medicine. Eye for an eye.... But that was wrong. Moreover, since that fateful year of 995, the Przemyslids had grown into a large, princely family -- a dynasty! The only vassal of Kaiser Heinrich to bear the title of King! How could a small House like that of Poraj ever succeed in destroying so formidable a force as the Przemyslids?

Nonetheless, it took less than a year for my conspirators to produce the desired result.



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The swiftness with which victory smiled at my plot succeeded in shifting my focus. I was as determined as ever to avenge the murder of my family’s ancestor. However, a better, more efficient method was required. The House of Poraj was weak. We had need of much more power if we were to succeed in ridding the earth of the Przemyslids. There was only one source of such power within my reach: Boleslaw II, King of Poland. My liege lord. The man who called me friend. If the the House of Poraj could become the ruling house of Poland.... The House of Piast was not so large. In fact, the King had only two sons. Prince Boleslaw, heir to the throne, had just become the proud father of a son, also named Boleslaw. It was as yet a relatively small dynasty....

Thus did focus shift from the masters of Prague to the masters of Krakow. Discretion was of capital importance. But I wrote the letters. Boleslaw Piast, the new-born prince, should be an easy target. And there was no paucity of willing participants in intrigue at the Royal Castle of Krakow.

Things were already afoot when the king said to me suddenly one afternoon:

“You still have an eye on that bit of coastland up there -- Szczecin, is it not?”

“My Marshal is training every youth in my domains for another war -- eventually,” I replied with a slight laugh.

“Let that not trouble you any further,” said the king. “After all, what are friends for?”

And to my astonishment, King Boleslaw promptly declared war for the county of Szczecin -- in my name.



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The power wielded by the House of Piast was practically flaunted in my face, however unintentionally. The king had at his disposal ten times the number of fighting men available in Szczecin. All of them were called up, backed up by an army from friendly Polotsk! The king was crowned with victory in the space of six fleeting months.



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His victory was all the more sensational as it came at the same time as the shameful defeat of our brothers in Christ.



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In the meantime, my own secret desires had their own taste of sweet victory.



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But it was not enough to do away with infants in line for the throne! Steps had to be taken in order to put the House of Poraj in line for that same throne. Buoyed by his victory, the king had called for another of his frequent banquets. The festivities were heightened when a solemn announcement was made on the eve of the New Year’s Feast: Laurentius Poraj, my son and heir, was betrothed to Princess Jadwiga of Poland, the king’s eldest daughter and third in the line of succession.

My son and heir. The words, usually so charged with emotion, stirred me little. When I looked at my first-born son, I saw precious little of myself in him. He took more after Stanislawa. He had worked diligently at his education, to be sure. He was kind and temperate, and showed promising skills in the arts of courtly diplomacy. No one could say that he ever gave thought to the littlest vice. But there was something in that face that elicited in me disappointment. I had shared with my two brothers the revelations made by the Augustinian Canon; to my sons I had said nothing, not even to Laurentius. Even now, I decided to hold my tongue.



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My first-born son... not looking his best



My eldest child, Adèle had come of age and been wedded to an Italian nobleman, Gualtiero di Parma, Count of Modena. My brothers too had had children for whom they were seeking suitable matches. Bruno was lucky. I suspect he took advantage of his position as my Chancellor. Never disdainful of the charms of the fair sex, he had fathered an illegitimate son -- Maciej, whom he stubbornly refused to legitimize. Yet he did squander much effort on arranging for that son’s future. We were all surprised when it was announced that Maciej was betrothed to the very young Cecilie, of the noble house of Wigeriche, and Duchess of Brabant. Although that union would make him a vassal of the Kaiser, I was pleased. Papa had always said that the closer the House of Poraj got to the noblest and most influential houses, the better for the House of Poraj. I wanted our House to have all the prestige it could get.

But on the heels of Bruno’s news came a devastating report. Mama’s family, the Maison de Bourgogne, was practically extinct! The King of France, tired of the hostility of Bourgogne, had stripped my cousin of his title. The family had fled to the court of the Duc de Savoie. Although blessed with four sons all older than me, none of them had married! The one now holding the title of Duc de Bourgogne, was a certain Guy de Bordeaux, himself as yet unmarried. I immediately wrote to my cousin, inviting him to Poznan.

Sadly, he declined. Mere months after he received a new home, the Kaiser was at war to reclaim the Duchy of Savoy.

In that autumn following the acquisition of Szczecin -- now renamed Stettin -- Stanislawa succumbed to illness. She was just thirty-nine. By the quirky laws of gavelkind succession, my son Laurentius inherited the title of Duke of Volhynia, while Stanislawa’s title to the County of Kujawy went to our third son, Victor. Less than a year later, the king followed her to the grave. I consoled myself with a second marriage. I found a willing bride in Gisèle, daughter of Baron Hugues de Saint-Omer. Gisèle’s own youth -- she was twenty -- rejuvenated me, and she was soon with child.

His Late Majesty, for reasons of his own, must have spoken very well of me to his heir, Boleslaw III. Three months after ascending the throne, he offered me the position of Chancellor of Poland.



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Had Heaven blessed my quest? As Chancellor of Poland, I was as close to the Royal Family as I could ever hope to get. With how much more ease could I now maneuver around the laws of succession! The new queen, Åse Knudsdatter, of the noble Danish house of Estrid, had recently given birth to a new son -- Prince Pelka, heir to the throne of Poland. He would have to be removed. I vowed to do my utmost to see that the little prince departed this world as swiftly but as painlessly as possible.




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******​
 
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Ahh! So much intrigue! Both Boleslaw and the Premyslids plotting against Laurentius?!

Great job weaving the story events, by the way. That combination of the book and the intrigue events was pretty cool!

Thanks, tunapirate! What's nice is that I don't need to work too hard at the intrigue, the game just keeps throwing stuff at me to work with :D
 
I. 10. Games of Deception


Gisèle was delighted when I accepted the position of Chancellor of Poland. She loved Krakow with its myriad of scents and sounds, the bustling covered markets, the immense plazas, and the accents of royal gossip. My son Laurentius was also living in Krakow. However, since I had set the wheels of murder in motion in the Royal Nursery, it was imperative that I never be associated with the King’s Private Chambers.

I buried myself in Affairs of State, confining myself to a separate wing of the Castle. The young king expressed concern about our neighbour to the south, the kingdom of Hungary. The House of Arpad was steadily pushing out the tribes of Pechenegs from around the mouth of the Danube and the north coast of the Black Sea. Hungary had already reduced the heathens’ holdings to a single province. But by the same token, the Arpads were swiftly becoming a powerful House. Perhaps too powerful.

Further south, the Republic of Pisa was displaying exceptionally aggressive behaviour towards the kingdom of Sicily.

“What is it with these vulgar merchants?” the king exclaimed. “Do they believe themselves deserving of the same privileges as men of high birth? It’s insane. God preserve Poland from such devilry!”



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a powerful Hungary ; greedy merchants of Pisa



But burying myself in other Houses’ doings was not enough. If tragedy struck the Royal Nursery, absolutely no suspicion had to fall my way. I needed to be away from Krakow. There was plenty for me to do in my own capital of Poznan. My son Éric was getting married. As a wedding gift, I handed him the title of Count of Gdansk. Gisèle and I were gifted with the birth of our first child, a daughter. We named her Anna-Maria. We stayed together that winter, and Gisèle conceived again. But the news I wanted to hear even more finally reached me while I was visiting my province of Stettin.



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The House of Poraj was one step closer to possessing the throne of Poland.

I rushed back to Krakow to take my place in the official mourning. There was plenty happening around the world to distract the king’s politically alert mind. Kaiser Heinrich was fighting France again, this time for possession of the province of Zeeland. Goings-on in the Muslim world were another major worry. From Rome came official notification that His Holiness extended the protect of Mother Church over a courageous religious Order, one whose main office had been to care for pilgrims to the Holy Hand, and which now extended to military defense. They were no longer the monks but the Knights of Saint John.



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That Papal announcement prompted the king to hold a Grand Tournament.

The idea made me sick. Almost thirty years had passed since the Royal Tournament that had changed my life ; I could still see the jousting fields where Papa had been wounded, could still hear the crash of horses.... I wanted no part in it. My wife was about to give birth. It was the perfect excuse to return to Poznan. But the king commanded me to participate in his Tournament. Arguing the order was impossible. I stayed in Poznan only long enough to relish in the birth of another daughter. We gave her the name Constance. Then it was back to Krakow.

I was no expert in the joust. Horses hated me, and the feeling was mutual. I rode nevertheless.



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It was a short-lived humiliation. Amongst the scores of news items that rained onto my work-table were three letters. One was from my daughter Adèle informing that I had become a grand-father. She and her husband were the elated parents of a boy, Costantino di Parma. Not only that, but her husband had been appointed head of a dukedom. Adèle was now Duchess of Modena. She promised to visit as soon as possible.



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The second was a simple, very kind letter from Bedzimir Mazoviecki, for whom Mama had arranged a prestigious wedding years back. He invited me to be godfather to his daughter Grzymislawa. I penned what I hoped was a friendly and equally kind refusal, with an invitation to return to visit Poznan anytime. The third was from my father-in-law, the Baron de Saint-Omer, inviting me and Gisèle to the wedding of his youngest daughter with... Guy de Bordeaux, Duc de Bourgogne!

How magnificently unpredictable were the turns of dynastic heritage, I thought to myself long after receiving that invitation -- which I also declined. The previous Ducs de Bourgogne had been my grand-father, and then my uncle. Their bloodline was now extinct. Burgundy was ruled by a new House, whose head was about to become... my brother-in-law! In some ironic, unexpected fashion, Greater Poland still had ties with the Duchy of Burgundy.

A letter to my brother Bruno brought similar news, but with a regrettable twist. He too had become a grand-father. The illegitimate Maciej, together with his wife Cecilie, Duchess of Brabant, had produced a son. But not a Poraj.

“It’s the law,” Bruno shrugged. “Dura lex, sed lex. An illegitimate son may not pass on his father’s patronym.”

“So what name has he taken?”

“Taczanowski.”

“It sounds nothing at all like Poraj!”

“He’s a Poraj all the same,” Bruno replied. “You agree, don’t you?”

“Of course I agree!”

“And so the future Duke of Brabant shall be a 'Poraj.' Now look on the bright side. There’s still my sons Doman and Pawel, both born on the right side of the bed. And there are plenty of eligible brides amongst the Kaiser’s hundreds of vassals.” In fact, he concluded, he had already begun negotiating the union of his son Doman with a daughter of the Count of Ypres.

Later, though I never said so, I was relieved about Maciej. In the event that the fiends from Prague ever discovered that the House of Poraj descended from the family they were seeking to annihilate, it might conceivably escape their attention that Taczanowski was a Poraj equivalent. So in the event -- God forbid -- of the massacre of us all, the Poraj bloodline would survive incognito.... Still, there was less honour in a House tainted with adulterous liaison.

Would that everyone thought as I did....



******​



In the spring of 1112, I declared war on the heathen Prussians occupying the provinces of Sambia and Galindia. I was back and forth to the warfront for a year when Gisèle sent me news that she was with child.



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No, I said to myself a thousand times after reading her letter. No, it could not be. Not again!

A thousand scenarios visited my feverish brain that night. I had been cursed! The murderers of Prague had cursed the House of Poraj!... Gisèle had heard gossip of Stanislawa’s infidelity... it was easy to cuckold the Duke, what with him travelling so often, why not try it herself... she loved going to Krakow -- she was having an affair with the King!... I desired her one minute, and despised her the next. I would throttle the life out of her! Unless, of course, the child was actually mine....

Whose ever child it was, it didn’t survive. I swallowed my pride and ordered my Spymaster to keep tabs on my wife’s social life. On my rare stops in Poznan, I kept away from Gisèle’s bed. I did so for nearly a year, while assuring myself that she could be having no one else’s child. The only family matter that interested me was my daughter Helena, now of an age to marry. I loved her dearly, despite her extraordinary resemblance to Stanislawa. Bruno might not shy away from vassal houses in the Holy Roman Empire, but I hated the Kaiser as Papa did. Wasn’t he, after all, the liege lord of the murderous House of Premyslids? I sent an embassy to the Court of the King of France. The heir to that kingdom, Prince Philippe Capet, was also of an age to start a family.



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My proposal was accepted. Helena was tearful but excited. She departed for Meaux in the spring of 1114.

Around Christmastime, tragedy struck thrice. Everywhere, the winter was severe. Few homes were able to withstand the freezing, howling winds. Many sickened. My brother Alexander in his province of Lubusz, and Jolanta, his daughter and heir, both ill with pneumonia, died... on the same day! His three-year-old grand-daughter, Milena, was suddenly Countess of Lubusz. And over in Brabant, Duchess Cecilie also died of pneumonia. My brother Bruno thus became the grand-father of the one-year-old Duke of Brabant. Christmas that year was neither warm nor merry.

The war for Prussia finally ended in the spring of 1115. I rushed home to Poznan to announce the victory... and walked into the arms of dishonour.



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My craven nature eventually took over. The sight of Gisèle half naked before me turned my stomach. She was in tears, as if I were the one who had done something wrong! I slammed the door on her prostrate figure. And walked away.



******



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I put on a show of business as usual. In a gesture calculated to win admiration, I made gifts of the newly conquered provinces. Galindia went to a passably competent courtier, Aleksander of Kostrzyn ; Sambia I gave to Bruno’s son Pawel.

I took Gisèle with me everywhere. Bodyguards and chaperones of my own choosing accompanied her daily. We shared the same chambres, the same bed. I took her every single night. She conceived.

Laurentius, my son and heir, and Princess Jadwiga, announced the birth of a son, Laurentius, in the spring of 1117. It was done. A Poraj -- one named Laurentius Poraj no less!-- was second in line for the throne of Poland, directly after his mother the Princess Jadwiga.

Days later, my son Éric, Count of Gdansk, died after a short, virulent illness. He was twenty-six years old. I mourned him bitterly. He was survived by his young son Éric, and a new-born daughter, Gertruda. Gisèle gave birth to a son in July. He was christened Mikael. My displeasure with her abated. I charged my Steward with preparing a great feast in Poznan for the end of the year.

In October, my daughter Helena wrote to me from a country château in Normandy. Her father-in-law, King Henri of France, had declared war on Kaiser Heinrich. The House of Capet wanted to recuperate the duchy of Provence. She had taken refuge in Normandy while her husband Prince Philippe went to war. She was with child.

I nearly wrote back to say I would join her there. But how can a man, Chancellor of Poland and grand-father of a future King of Poland, tell his daughter how desperately lonely and miserable his life is?



******​



One day, my Spymaster requested an audience with me, if possible within the hour. It was rare for my Spymaster to make such a request. I sent for him immediately.

“Some of the servants were complaining to the Steward about door-locks being jammed,” he began. “The frequency of their complaints piqued my interest. This morning my suspicions appeared to be confirmed.”

“Appeared to be?”

“A door was found open between the gardens and the cellars. The lock on the door had been tampered with. I do not wish to alarm Your Grace, but I suspect that someone has been trying to break into the Castle, and has succeeded.”


******​
 
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I. 11. Calamities Great and Small


The Castle was searched from cellars to turrets. No intruder was discovered. The servants, some of the guards even, were nervous all day long, jumping at the slightest sigh. Everyone thought the Castle had become the focus of a band of cutthroats and thieves. I could only think of the safety of my bloodline. Had my family’s identity been discovered by the murderers from Prague? If indeed it had, weren’t those same murderers getting a bit sloppy-handed? Was it really that hard to find a way to force their way into the Castle? These attempts at breaking the locks seemed amateurish.

The next morning caused us all a shock.



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When I cried out in alarm, my guards were instantly upon the intruder. He proved a vicious adversary. He produced a deadly-looking stiletto and drew blood from more than one guard. The struggle ended soon enough. Whether by accident or by design, he fell on his own weapon, wounding himself mortally. In the minutes it took him to die, he glared at me continuously, uttering not a word, merely gasping his life away. But the hatred in his eyes was a vision I believe I shall never forget.

Later that same day I returned to that tailor’s shop in the street of Saint Mary’s Church. The same little man was sitting at his table. I told him I wanted to see that Augustinian priest again -- at the Castle.

He came two weeks later. I detained him three days practically under lock and key. I told him about the intruder, and about my suspicions.

“As it stands,” I concluded, “we do not really know what this man was doing in the Castle.”

“Your Grace is wise. Yes, it is only prudent to assume the worst. To assume, that is, that your ancestors’ enemies have picked up your family’s trace.”

“I want you to put the whole story into writing,” I said. “Everything. The facts that are common knowledge, plus those which are not. And who you are, and how you know what you know, even if you name no names. You shall not leave this Castle until you have finished that work.”

As for myself, I wrote an account of the break-in. We had to have a trace of what the family was going through. It would be our secret family archive. If we were to take this threat seriously, then we required all the pieces of evidence there were, however small, in order to understand the danger. The hole in the fabric of this apparent threat to the House of Poraj was gapingly huge: why? Why were there people seeking to harm us, the innocent descendants of Saint Adalbert’s brother?

It took some time for tranquillity to return to the Castle. Only to be followed by a series of events that heightened a sense of impending catastrophe.

First came some good news. Bruno’s son Doman, married off to the Countess of Ypres, had become the father of a baby boy. Doman had also been appointed Chancellor of Ypres -- it was a job that looked to be turning into something of a family tradition! At practically the same time, my son Laurentius became the father of twins: a second son and a daughter. The boy was named Boleslaw, after his other grand-father. The girl was named Zwinislawa. My daughter Helena had also had a son -- Henri Capet, heir to the thrones of France and Aquitaine.

France lost the war against Kaiser Heinrich. Prince Philippe Capet fell in battle. Helena, at once new mother and fresh widow, wrote to say how unwelcome she was feeling at Meaux.

Autumn gave way to winter. That year, 1118, Poland was having another exceptionally cold winter. Pneumonia took hold everywhere. One of that plague’s first victims was Laurentius, my son and heir.

It was as if my mysterious Castle intruder had pierced my heart from his grave. My son and heir.... I had already lost my second-born son, Éric, to pneumonia. The heir to the Duchy of Greater Poland was now Victor, my third son, Count of Kujawy. He and his wife were living in Poznan. They still had no children. What was happening to the House of Poraj? Had even the elements become allies of the murderers from Prague? Descendants I lacked not. But the first of the new generation -- my first grandsons -- belonged to other Houses.



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My brother Alexander had had no sons. Bruno had had five. The name of Poraj was now planted in Ypres. A disguised one was planted in Brabant. The others were Przemyslaw, followed by Pawel and Sulistryj. I had Victor and little Mikael. Laurentius had begotten Prince Laurentius and Prince Boleslaw.



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Then, on Christmas Eve, that most holy of days, new-born Prince Boleslaw Poraj was murdered in Krakow.

How? I wailed to myself. Who had unleashed the powers of Hell itself? For who else but a demon could have perpetrated such an odious, unholy crime on the holy day of Christmas Eve?

I had shut myself away to be alone with my grief when there came a furious pounding on my door. It was an outrage. I felt like summoning a guard to arrest whomever it was who dared to intrude upon my misery. The man who dared was my loyal Spymaster.

“Sire!” he cried, throwing himself on his knees. “Punish me, torture me if it please you, but not before you know the name of Prince Boleslaw’s assassin!”

“You found out...? Who? Tell me who!”

“Your Grace... upon my soul.... The child was murdered on the orders of Her Royal Highness, the Princess Ryksa.” The child’s own aunt!

“She must pay.” There was no hesitation in my mind. “Rise, Lord Slavomir. She must pay. Do you hear me?”

“My Lord must hasten. The secret is no secret, the scandal at Court is untenable. The Princess Ryksa shall be made to disappear, so the King declares -- it is said that a royal betrothal shall be announced within the week!”

“I care for no betrothal. I want that murderous bitch dead!”

Royal betrothal or no, Krakow was still Krakow. The whiff of intrigue drew conspirators to my chambres like bees to nectar.



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The Princess Ryksa had not yet come of age. Time was short. Too short, alas. Six months later, Princess Ryksa left for the Court of Uppland where she became the wife of Björn, heir to the throne of Sweden. My influence did not extend as far as those savage regions. I was forced to abandon my plot to have Ryksa’s throat slit.

Scandal and calamity then chose to visit Poznan. To wit: the person of Ermengard von Tyrol, wife of my son Victor. Widened eyes, furtive snickers and blatant uncourtly behavior accompanied her every step, pushing her to refrain from appearing at Court.

“Your Grace must pay no attention to the gossip of lewdness or immorality,” my Spymaster reported.

“It’s true, then. She prefers to bed with her own sex.”

Lord Slavomir nodded. He didn’t appreciate having to talk to me about such things.

“So let her!” I cried. “So long as Victor is there also to produce an heir!”

By some miracle, they did exactly that. Ermengard gave birth to a beautiful boy. They named him Jakub. But afterwards, Ermengard seemed to go off bedmates of either sex. The reason for that -- and for her subsequent disappearance from public view -- became known soon enough: she had, heaven knows how, become afflicted with leprosy.

As if in response to this threat to the future of the duchy, Gisèle gave me another daughter that year. We named her Clara.

There were no more attempts to break into the Castle. My Marshal toiled endlessly to maintain and improve the duchy’s military strength and science. In 1119 and 1120, we used that strength and science to add two more provinces to the demesne of Greater Poland: Yatvyagi and Podlasie.



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1120: I had been Duke of Greater Poland for forty years. Where had the time gone? What had I done with Papa’s legacy?

None of that concerned any of my courtiers. They insisted on at least a couple of fairs and more than one Ducal Feast to celebrate the "happy reign."

“Happy reign? Good heavens --”

“There have been no protests, no outbursts of violence in the streets, no peasant revolts in forty years,” my Steward pointed out. “Who’s saying it’s not a happy reign?”

“No tournaments,” I muttered.

“Who’s saying anything about tournaments? Charlatans, fake magicians with badly tamed monkeys, ugly old women selling foul-smelling love potions -- the people want to eat, drink and be merry in the town and in their homes!”

Everything went well, despite my misgivings. There was even a delegation from the province of Galindia, headed by their new bishop, to tell me that the population of the whole region had embraced the One True Faith. In all respects, 1120 was a year of grace.

Like so many good things, it couldn’t last.



******​



The first hint of calamity was the demise of my brother Bruno’s wife in 1121. He chose to marry again. His ambitious streak -- and his talent for spotting heiresses -- incited him to search as far as the edge of the world for a new spouse. He found a willing candidate in Elena, of the noble House of Leon, heir to the Petty Kingdom of Britanny.

“You would leave this land? Finish your days at the edge of the world?” I couldn’t hide my dismay.

“I would,” he replied gaily. “I’m in no hurry, rest assured. Elena won’t inherit for years. I like being your Chancellor. But there are other things, other places and other people in this life than Poznan, Kalisz, Krakow and poor, hopeless King Boleslaw.”

Poor King Boleslaw. Poor Poland, indeed! The Princess Jadwiga, my erstwhile daughter-in-law, mother of my grandsons, had remarried. Before anyone could bat an eyelid, she had dug up some rotten cleric and gotten him to marry her to her own uncle, Prince Goszczon, Count of Opole. The King could do nothing but sigh, cough and look utterly defeated. Recently widowed, he too had chosen to remarry. A lowly courtier from some minor German House. The Court of Krakow was awash in scandal.

Quite unexpectedly, my daughter Helena showed up in Poznan. She had remarried, left the Court of France to wed an English lord, the Earl of Northampton. She had, as she explained tearfully, just given her husband an heir. Now she was back in her homeland, and here to stay. But she declined to say more. It was only through Bruno’s far-reaching contacts that we learned that her husband the Earl had banished her from his demesnes. I took my family’s counsel and decided not to pry into Helena’s affairs.

The old King of Sweden passed away. To mark the occasion of the accession of the new king -- and of the Princess Ryksa becoming Queen of Sweden -- the King had the bad taste to invite us to a feast.

The Palace glowed with the dazzle of a thousand candles reflected in gold, silver, bronze, colored glass and exquisite jewels. The meats and wines were magnificent. The hearts of the courtiers pounded in their breasts, hungry for the tiniest inkling of fresh scandal. Two hearts in particular were prepared to satisfy the most ferocious appetites.



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“I’m so sorry,” Bruno murmured in my ear. He, like over a hundred pairs of eyes, had witnessed the fleeting yet brazen kiss. His new wife, so young and unaccustomed to so much emotion, fainted.

Gisèle and I returned separately to Poznan later that week. She had barely passed the city walls when her carriage was stopped by my personal guard. I had ordered them to behave with decency, but no leniency. Word of the public kiss had, of course, reached Poznan long before we had. Gisèle was led directly to the dungeons.

She died there within the month.



******​



Which was worse, Prague or Krakow? Which city hated us Porajes most? Prague was where a plot had been conceived to butcher a saint and his brothers. It was where the Poraj ancestor had been slaughtered. Krakow was where my father had fallen, my grandson murdered, my first-born son and heir buried, my marital life made sport of. I had never been to Prague, but I could no longer bear the sight of Krakow. The King would not hear of me leaving his Council. So I remained in his Council, His Majesty’s loyal and obedient servant. But I travelled often to Poznan.

“I trust that My Lord takes sufficient precautions around his person when staying at the Palace,” said my trustworthy Spymaster one day as I was standing before my carriage.

“I trust no one around the Palace. Especially the Royal Family. You ought to know that by now. Why, is there something I should know?”

“This report came into my hands earlier this morning. It is indeed something My Lord should know.”

The report was crystal clear in its brevity. It was quite simply a heaven-sent betrayal. The Princess Jadwiga was plotting the murder of my son Mikael! One of her co-conspirators, however, had apparently had a change of heart, and my Spymaster had come to hear of the plot.

Would the madness never end? I decided to lay the cards on the table before the King.

“The Princess throws shame and dishonour on the House of Piast,” I intoned, emphasizing the indignation the king himself should have been feeling. “This plotting against the very House she married into, this second marriage which, in the eyes of every Court from here to Cathay, reeks of incest -- there is not a noble house which does not gasp in horror at the mention of Your Majesty’s name. How does Your Majesty tolerate being the laughing stock of Polish and foreign peasant folk?”

“By all the saints, Lord Chancellor, do something! You have use of the Royal Seal, do whatever it is that must be done!”

It was his usual response. I had in fact already despatched a long, detailed letter to the Pope. His reply was as swift as it was satisfying.



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Princess Jadwiga was heiress to the throne of Poland, followed by her son Prince Laurentius. Should anything happen to the King, and the people rejected Jadwiga due to her being excommunicated and incestuous, my grandson Prince Laurentius would become King of Poland. Then we would be able to deal more seriously with the House of Premyslids -- and hopefully eliminate once and for all the threat to our family.


******​
 
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I. 12. Nearer the Target


Bruno’s flair for matchmaking pleased everyone who consulted him. He nagged at me to get married again.

“Third time lucky!” he grinned.

“You’re the lucky one, not me,” I replied.

“Listen to you, you sound like an old maid! I have the perfect bride for you.”

His perfect bride was Russian, a daughter of the Count of Novgorod. In truth, neither Poznan nor Krakow brought me any pleasure. Why not get married again, after all? I gave Bruno full reins; Liubava Sviatoyovna, of the honourable House of Rurikid, arrived in Poznan at the end of the summer of 1122. She did exhibit that vaguely menacing air that I associated with Russians in general. Still, she managed to combine it with a genuinely sweet disposition. Her devotion to me went so far as to consent to becoming Catholic.

All too soon afterwards, my daughter Anna-Maria came of age. Once more, Bruno worked his magic. He arranged for her betrothal to a youth two years her junior -- the Duke of Skåne, in Denmark. I had not returned to that realm since childhood, when Mama had organized a Nordic tour the year after Papa’s death. I looked forward to returning there with my daughter.

The chance to return the favours to my good brother popped up most unexpectedly.

“You haven’t married off your youngest boy yet,” I said to him one morning.

“Too busy working for my big brother’s big family.”

“No perfect bride waiting in the wings?”

“There is! I just haven’t found her yet.”

“How would you like to recuperate Mama’s heritage?”

“Mama’s heritage? What the devil are you talking about?”

Amazingly, Bruno did not know. Guy de Bordeaux, formerly my brother-in-law and still Duc de Bourgogne, had no male heir.

“He has a legitimate, unmarried daughter?” Bruno’s voice had grown thick with hungry anticipation.

“Actually, there are two.”

“Very well, so what’s the catch?”

The Duke’s first-born was a pair of twin girls. To complicate things even more, both of them were named Constance! The designated heiress was weak to the point of being infirm, with a club foot. Constance Number Two was in reasonably good health. The heiress might live several more years with her infirmity, found a family, have children. Then again, she might not.

“First of all, Guy will never consent to anything but a matrilineal marriage,” I said.

“Does it matter?”

“Think about this, Bruno. A Poraj at the head of Burgundy. Mama would be tickled to death.”

“Not so Duke Guy, I wager.”

“You have to ask for a normal marriage. Guy probably wouldn’t accept an offer for Constance Number One. But for Constance Number Two there may be a chance.”

“Both girls will probably get married at the same time,” he objected. “How are we going to get him to accept a proposal of marriage for Number Two?”

“The girls might not marry at the same time,” I replied. “I think we should wait until the designated heir is wed. Afterwards, we propose Sulistryj for Number Two.”

“But what if Number One begins producing heirs right away?”

“It’s a gamble, dear brother. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Sulistryj weds Number One or Number Two, or none of the above. It’s up to you. But the only way a Poraj might have a chance of inheriting the duchy of Burgundy is with a normal marriage. No matrilineal clause.”

He took the gamble, opting for Number Two. This time, Bruno was incredibly lucky. When the girls came of age, Bruno sat tight and did nothing. Guy de Bordeaux eventually arranged a matrilineal marriage for his designated heiress with the fourth son of the Count of Narbonne. Constance Number Two remained without a suitor. Sulistryj Poraj was proposed -- and accepted!

Then Bruno’s luck turned. A year after his son had made his home at the court of Duke Guy, he, my one remaining sibling, died of pneumonia. He was only forty-nine years old.



******​



Everywhere, fortunes fluctuated. After Bruno passed away, my new wife conceived and brought forth a daughter. We named her Rosalind. Not long afterwards, my father-in-law suddenly appeared in Poznan. With him were eight other Russian refugees seeking asylum. The King of Rus had claimed the county of Novgorod for himself, evicting the conquered Rurikids. I welcomed the ex-Count willingly. At fifty, he still showed signs of being a capable soldier. Yet he was humble, not presuming on mine or anyone else’s good will.

Leprosy combined with other illnesses claimed the wife of my heir Victor. He promptly contracted a betrothal with the daughter of a Serbian count, much younger than himself. France and England allied to proclaim war on the Kaiser. Both courts were contesting the Kaiser’s most recent conquests. That conflict’s exceptional violence claimed hundreds of lives, not least those of King Henri II of France and Kaiser Heinrich. Both realms were left with children at their helms.

In Denmark, my daughter Anna-Maria went from being Duchess of Skåne to Queen of Denmark in the space of three years.



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I undertook the addition of another province to my duchy. Grodno conceded defeat in the the spring of 1126. King Boleslaw added the county of Lyon to the Kingdom of Poland without raising any army at all. The new Queen, his second wife, had inherited Lyon from her father; upon her death, the county passed to her son, Prince Malowuj.



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My second daughter Helena, still Countess of Northampton but living as a recluse on my estates, passed away the year after. She was only forty-one.

The Royal House of Piast fared no better. King Boleslaw’s reason failed him; bouts of incoherence battled for supremacy over his once strong, courageous self. The King’s Council declared him incompetent. Lord Sedziej, the Court Chaplain, was designated Regent of Poland.



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In the summer of 1128, Victor’s infant motherless son Jakub was murdered.

“Mysterious circumstances -- rubbish! It’s the Princess Ryksa’s doing!” I screamed at my loyal Spymaster.

“Forgive me, but Your Grace is in error.”

“Why? Why do you take her defense?”

“The Princess Ryksa, may it please Your Grace, is now the late Queen of Sweden. She has been dead of pneumonia this past twelve-month.”

Good riddance! was all I could think. But it meant that someone, some other and unknown person, was also plotting against my family! My son and heir, lost in the throes of wasteful indulgence in his Castle of Kujawy, had no children. After me, there were only three Poraj males left. The bloodline itself may not be in danger of extinction, but if it were some unknown enemy’s target to exterminate all my male descendants, they were appallingly close to attaining their target. I all but ceased to take any food or drink whatsoever.



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The year 1230 began with another of Dame Fortune’s whimsical spins. Guy de Bordeaux passed away, leaving the Duchy of Burgundy to his daughter Constance Number One. Days later, my devoted and incomparable Spymaster and companion, Lord Slavomir, passed away, followed by the Regent of Poland. The King’s Council was on the verge of collapse. After much soul-searching and debate, I acquiesced to the majority demand to assume the Regency of the kingdom.



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That summer, Liubava announced that she was with child. One reason more to celebrate fifty years as Duke of Greater Poland.

Liubava produced her second child in January of the following year. My eleventh child was a son. One more male heir for Greater Poland! We named him David, after Liubava’s paternal grand-father.

Over in Burgundy, the gamble I had played with my late brother brought maximum gains. Duchess Constance I passed away. She had never married after all; her former fiancé had apparently thought better of a matrilineal match. Her twin sister became Duchess Constance II -- and thus, my nephew became Duc de Bourgogne.



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Burgundy becomes Porajian -- Mama and Papa would surely be much amused


******​
 
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Good work getting Burgundy into the family!
 
Good work getting Burgundy into the family!

Really, I couldn't believe my luck! Discovering there was a potential inheritance, but that dilemma of twin girls had me sweating. Then it worked out without my needing to assassinate anyone -- like the AI was almost being nice to me, LOL. Spoiler: you'll be hearing about another nice inheritance soon, but the title holder kept popping out male heirs.... :angry:
 
I. 13. From Slavery to Freedom and Back



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Stettin, 19 November 1137

To His Grace’s great chagrin, Heaven has seen fit to remind the Duke yet again of the vanity of human existence. The Duke’s grand-daughter Princess Zwinislawa, twin sister of the murdered Prince Boleslaw, daughter of Lord Laurentius and the Princess Jadwiga of Poland, had arrived in Stettin. There she was boarding a ship that would bear her to the Kingdom of Scotland where she would wed Adam Dunkeld, heir to the Scots Earldom of Innse Gall. It is a significant tribute to His Grace’s prestige even in the courts of far-away lands that the noble Lord Adam has consented to a matrilineal marriage. Whilst preparing to bid his royal grandchild adieu, doleful news arrived from France. His Grace’s grandson Henri III, King of France and Aquitaine, was dead. He had succumbed to a lingering fever. He was just nineteen years old. The French Crown has passed to a paternal uncle, now Henri IV of France. Aquitaine has become an independent kingdom.


******​


Poznan, 4 December, 1137

This morning, courtiers from the Duchy of Verona arrived at Court. They presented a letter from their liege, Duke Johann von Pommern, in which the Duke gave his consent to the marriage of his daughter Adelinde to His Grace’s son Mikael. Although pleasing, this news failed to rouse His Grace from his despondent state. Thanks to the charming manners of the Lord Bishop of Stettin however, the Veronese courtiers took little offense at being refused a private audience with His Grace. It was arranged that Mikael himself shall ride to Austria to meet the bridal cortege. The wedding is scheduled for the eve of the New year.


******​


Poznan, 2 March 1138

After a war lasting fifteen months, an exceptionally long time for the army of Poland, His Majesty’s fighting men claimed victory over the Pomeranian High Chief of Dymin on the Baltic Sea. The title was immediately handed to Duke Laurentius. It is the second time in His Grace’s lifetime that Greater Poland has so benefitted from the might of the King’s men. No other vassal of the Royal House of Piast has been so honoured.

But even the most gratuitous gifts come at a price. The gift of the county of Dymin may well have cost much more than it is worth. The Spymaster reports that jealousies burn fiercely in Krakow. The fact that His Majesty declared war at all stirred up some controversy due to the fact that the King’s Council had declared him unfit to govern. But Boleslav III is still King of Poland. The fact that he declared war in the name of His Grace very nearly caused a Palace Rebellion.

Duke Laurentius is due to appear in Poznan in the next three days. I myself shall inform him of the Council’s recommendation: to wit, that His Grace not retain the title for himself, but create a new vassal, one that would be pleasing to the hostile factions in Krakow. It is the Spymaster’s opinion that anything less should only engender plots against the House of Poraj.



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******​



I am drunk on the sensation of freedom. Pious folk say it all the time: better to be king in your own shack than a slave in someone else’s palace. The world scoffs at such talk. But it is no fake wisdom, it is the Lord’s truth, as I have discovered so late in life.

On the thirteenth day of June, in the year of grace 1138, I resigned the position of Regent of Poland. And now I am as floating on a cloud, drunk on the sensation of freedom.

I regret not my belated wisdom. I learned much during my service in Krakow, first as Chancellor, then as Regent. And my duchy is a far cry from being a poor substitute. But now I shake the dust of Krakow from my feet. I shall never return.

In the first place, there was the incident of the King’s war. It was to be expected that I should be accused of manipulating His Majesty’s mind. No amount of testimony could clear me of suspicion. Despite all the evidence to my innocence, they would not believe it. The Council in my duchy suggested granting my new province to someone who enjoyed the favour of my enemies in Krakow. I refused. Flatter their hypocrisy I would never do! But I did divest myself of the title. The province was re-named Werle, and I created Dargorad Wratyslawicz, my good Chancellor’s young son, Count of Werle. The lad was unmarried, but an interesting bride was found in the person of a daughter of the Baron of Chelsea, a courtier at the Court of England. I was thus branded an English spy.

In the second place, the Pope had called a new Crusade to liberate Jerusalem. It was my opinion, together with the Chaplain’s, that Poland should take part in that enterprise. The others in the Council said Poland was in too weak a position -- which was true. In the end I withdrew my support for participation. The entire Order of Bishops despised me, even in my own duchy. With each message of defeat at the hands of the Infidel, I called myself a traitor to my Redeemer, a brother of Judas Iscariot.



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Finally, my enemies could wait no longer. A ploy to remove me from the King’s Council was made public. Incredibly, my detractors showed their entire hand. Not only did they want to be rid of me, they wanted to be rid of Jadwiga -- and of her son Laurentius.



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Only an imbecile could be blind to their intrigue. They proposed Prince Leszek, the King’s brother, as Regent, but only in order to usurp the throne when Boleslaw should breathe his last. I went in person to see Princess Jadwiga to warn her.

“As I recall, Your Grace, it was you who began to conspire against me when you endorsed a Papal Decree of excommunication,” was the Princess’s reply. “Now you would have me believe that you hold my best interests at heart? Allow me the decency not to count as a member of the same factions as you!”

I retired to my chambers and wept. She was right, alas. So be it. Let them stew in their own soup! The following day, I resigned. It was the most liberating experience of my life.



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******​



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Poznan, 31 July 1138

It is a challenge to gauge His Grace’s moods. That he is serenely content to be living in his own Castle once more and taking a personal hand in the governance of his demesnes, there is no doubt. At the same time, it is as if he continues to blame himself for some misdeed in Poland’s affairs. This may be due to the fact that a number of his subjects did not comprehend his resignation from the Regency. Rumours circulated that he was in disgrace at Court. Those rumours have now died. But since then, His Grace seems to discount the idea that his subjects could be happy with him. When the province of Marienburg officially abandoned the Prussian tongue for the dialect of Greater Poland, His Grace displayed virtually no reaction. In fact, he appeared almost sad.



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******​


Poznan, 10 October, 1138

His Grace’s daughter Clara has come of age. She is a graceful young lady, kind, considerate, learned, without delusions of grandeur. An offer of marriage has come from the Duke of Vestlandet in Norway. His Grace has approved the proposal. The Lady Clara is to sail from Stettin to Norway on the fifteenth of October.


******​


Poznan, 5 January, 1139

As the sun dipped below the horizon on the fourth of January, King Boleslaw III surrendered his soul to the Lord. To Poland’s shame, there is scarce any show of mourning. The kingdom is in turmoil. A faction to put the late King’s brother on the throne has taken up arms. Queen Jadwiga, the rightful ruler, has answered the challenge. His Grace has given the Marshal his orders: Greater Poland shall defend the just claims of the Queen.


******​


Poznan, 22 April, 1139

While Poland prepares for a month of carousing in jubilation for the victory of Queen Jadwiga over the rebels of Prince Leszek’s factions, His Grace is deep in mourning. Poland’s victory, assured at the Battle of Krakow, exacted its usual demand for sacrifice. On this day, Lord Victor Poraj, Count of Kujawy and heir to the Duchy of Greater Poland, fell in battle against the rebels. Lord Victor’s men were able to drag his body out of the final fray. They are expected to arrive in Poznan within the week. The title has reverted back to His Grace. The Council has expressed the pious wish that Lord Victor be in laid to rest in Poznan, as a tribute to his courageous stand in the name of Greater Poland.



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******​



I sat on an elevated and cushioned bench by a window overlooking a copious wood. It was a beautiful spring day. The wood was coming alive after a long bleak winter. It is one of my favourite pleasures in life, to witness nature’s rebirth.

There was a discreet knocking on the door.

“Come!”

I had asked my son Mikael to come for a serious talk. I watched him as he crossed the room to my side. Twenty-one years old, in the prime of his manhood.

“Sit here with me, Mikael.”

“Papa.” He took my hand and kissed it as he sat. “Not feeling a chill in this room? There’s not much sun.”

“There is warmth in the vista. It warms my heart to soak it in. What is that?” He had reached into his vest to withdraw a sealed letter.

“From your Spymaster. He asked me to hand it to you. Very important, he said.”

“Let it wait.”

I left my hand in his grasp. The silence between us was comfortable.

“My principal titles will be yours when I’m gone.”

He gave my hand a squeeze.

“Kujawy will go to your brother David. The rules of gavelkind succession.”

“Papa, I’m not in a hurry to inherit.”

“I, however, am in a hurry that you should.”

“That is not your --”

“David is young still. When he comes of age, you must be sure to arrange a worthy marriage for him. The same goes for Rosalind.”

“I’ll look after them.” He kissed my hand again. “Why all this talk of inheritance? Have you taken ill?”

“There is something you must know. It concerns the whole family.”

“Ah! Skeletons in the closet! So we are truly a noble family after all!” He chuckled at his own humour.

“As a matter of fact, that is precisely what there are in our closets.”

He looked at me and sighed. I gently disengaged my hand.

“There is blood on my hands, Mikael. Royal and princely blood. I am a traitor to the House of Piast.”

“Nonsense.”

“They were never crimes of passion. If time were handed back to me I would murder again. Perhaps even more than three times.”

“Murder? Three times? I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” he exclaimed.

“They were crimes of vengeance.” I turned away from the vista and looked at my heir. “The House of Poraj is under threat of extinction.”

“Papa! Are you aware of what apocalyptic speech you indulge in? Have you become a prophet of doom?”

“After me, there are only three left to carry the Poraj name in all of Poland: you, David, and your nephew Prince Laurentius. And there are those who would see our bloodline extinguished forever.”

He stared at me, speechless and incredulous.

“Let us to the oratorium. There is something you must see.”

The oratorium was in the next wing. Mikael accompanied me there. His palpable anxiety only drove home to me the fact that I should have done this sooner. But then, how was I to know that my heir would be my fourth, not my first, son?

We reached the small chapel. I unlocked the door -- no thief would ever have been able to pick the lock I had placed on this sacred door. Narrow stained-glass windows facing east bathed the room in a soft miraculous light. Against the west wall, dominated by a large crucifix, was set a small altar of white Greek marble. Beneath the altar were three statues set into niches: Saint Mary Magdalen, Saint Martin of Tours and Saint Joseph.



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“The secret of the Poraj identity I thought would best be guarded by Saint Joseph.” Mikael continued to look at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.

I bent down and knelt before the statue of Joseph on the far right. “Look here.”

I tapped on the wall behind the statue. The sound was clearly one of a thin wooden panel. I removed the panel. Behind it was a cache. I reached in and withdrew several parchments. They included the sworn testimony of the Augustinian Canon, the orders and minutae pertaining to the murders of the two Premyslid princes and the infant son of King Boleslaw, plus the ancient copy of the Martyrdom of Saint Adalbert.

“It’s all there,” I said. “Read.”

Mikael took the parchments and sat down. As he opened the first volume, I said I might as well take a look at my Spymaster’s message. He handed me the letter. I broke the seal.


Her Majesty the Queen repents of her folly, prepares
to announce Royal Visit to Poznan. Reconciliation with
Your Grace is the unspoken purpose of said visit.


My hands were shaking as I refolded the letter. I felt I had just had a vision of irrevocable condemnation.



******​



The month of July was a perfect time to play host to Her Majesty Queen Jadwiga. For one, many outdoor pageants could be planned with little risk of rain or storms. Secondly, the good weather permitted visits to various provinces -- though not all. As my Spymaster pointed out, allowing the Queen to see just how many vassals I had might have compromised the whole purpose of her visit. Thirdly, she had brought Prince Laurentius with her, thus providing me with the occasion to get closer to my royal grandson -- had he been inclined to do so. Lastly, it allowed me to unilaterally cancel my Council’s plans to celebrate the fifty-ninth anniversary of my position as Duke of Greater Poland.

“As it please you, Sire,” my Marshal grumbled, “but the pageants next year to mark the sixtieth anniversary of your reign will only be twice as magnificent!”

It was during the visit to Gdansk that Queen Jadwiga broached the subject which was the true object of her visit.

“I was wrong about you, Duke Laurentius,” she began. “In the few months since my beloved father passed away, I have come to appreciate just how much thievery and hypocrisy there was in the King’s Council, and how much the well-being of the realm mattered to your own honour.”

So far so good, I thought as I bowed to acknowledge the compliment.

She then went on to describe how many factions had sprung up like mushrooms since her accession to the throne. No less than three had the temerity to press claims for would-be usurpers, another group clamoured for reduced Crown Authority, while the Duke of Silesia was demanding independence from the Crown. What was she to do?

“Divide and conquer, Your Majesty, the ancient Romans proved that strategy works every time.”

“How would you do so?”

“Double the number of factions,” I replied. “Except that the new factions would all be under your control. By multiplying the number of causes, the discontent would have to spread themselves out thinner, leaving them little time to organize one faction into something powerful.”

“An appealing strategy!” she laughed. “What faction would you create, for instance?”

“The Law of Primogeniture Succession.”

“Perfect! I charge you, Duke Laurentius, with the formation of that very faction!”

I promised to comply, and then suggested that someone else assume the direction of the faction since I no longer resided in Krakow.

“As it happens, you have yourself introduced the subject of the second of my requests,” said the Queen. “It is my desire that you come back to Krakow and assume again the post of Chancellor of Poland.”

I declined. She insisted. I argued declining health, other responsibilities; she insisted further, but could easily wait a month before any definitive answer.

I watched from the shore as the Royal Party returned to Krakow on boats and barges winding up the Vistula River. Go back to Krakow? Abandon the peace of body and soul I had found in my demesnes? I had resolved never to set foot again in that hotbed of cynical back-stabbing and intrigue. All I wanted was to end my days in a happy, untormented place!



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******​
 
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Better to scheme from afar.
 
I. 14. It’s A Mad, Mad World



“It’s a girl, My Lord! The most beautiful baby girl in all Poland!”

I had taken my time en route to Krakow. On leaving Poznan, I had been well aware that Mikael’s wife Adelinde was due to go into labour soon. Something told me that the couple would be just as glad to have the Castle to themselves for their first Happy Event. I murmured a prayer of thanksgiving for the infant’s safe delivery.

“Have they chosen a name for her?” I asked the messenger who had raced from Poznan to bring me the news.

“They have, My Lord. They have christened the child Kunegunda.”

Really? Not a name I would have chosen myself, I found myself musing. I gave the messenger a coin and returned to directing my valet in unpacking my trunks.

Later that afternoon, I contemplated paying a call on my grandson. The boy had not deigned to greet me on my arrival at the Palace. His attitude vexed me. What sort of upbringing had he had, I wondered. Where had he learned to be gluttonous, slothful, and devious besides? And how did he get to be so fat and ugly? He was the same age as Mikael, but how unlike each other were those two Porajes. Royal blood or not, I decided in the end that I would not go begging to have an audience with Prince Laurentius.



******​



“Your Grace?”

I looked up from my writing table. A palace page stood in the doorway. I had not heard him knock.

“What is it, boy?”

The page cleared his throat. “Her Majesty begs Your Grace’s attendance upon her and --” He paused, and his composure instantly evaporated. “If Your Grace could come at once -- it’s about His Highness Prince Laurentius!”

For a moment I was paralyzed with dread. The page’s discomfiture worried me. My grandson had taken to bed three weeks after my arrival. I had not laid eyes on him since the summer when he had travelled to Poznan with his mother. Doctors had been attending him for a week. Why this urgent summons?

Laurentius’s bedroom was full of courtiers. It was clear all of them had been weeping. I could hear Jadwiga; her voice was pitched abnormally high. She was sitting on the bed. A valet took my hand and ushered me towards the figure in the bed.

Laurentius had turned an ugly grey-green colour and was shaking uncontrollably. Sweat streamed from his forehead, soaking into his bedclothes. As I approached, he turned two glassy, bloodshot eyes towards me. I could feel the heat radiating from his body through the sheets and blankets.

Jadwiga suddenly emitted a cry that was both a sob and a shriek. A handmaid arrived and grasped her by the shoulders. Jadwiga rose and let herself be led from the room. I searched under the bedcovers and took one of Laurentius’s hands.

He died in my arms that same evening.



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******​



Krakow, 1st December, 1139

To my beloved son, peace and paternal greetings.

My metamorphosis progresses imperceptibly, so be not alarmed, I am well. Who ever
would have imagined that I, always grateful to spend one extra hour in bed every
morning, should now be able to survive quite well on a mere three hours of sleep?
I can hardly recognize myself. And yet, three hours are quite sufficient. The Pal-
ace is so peaceful in the dead of night. I regret years of sleeping through that
most blissful time of Courtly life.

That your dear Adelinde is again with child delights me more than you can know. I
have arranged for one of the Canons to offer up prayers for her good health daily.
Embrace little Kunegunda for me, I can hardly wait to lay eyes upon her.

My Steward is pestering me about a banquet in January. The man is obsessed with
celebrations. In vain do I repeat ad nauseum that I do not wish to rejoice over
having devoted sixty years of my life as head of our duchy. A quiet evening in
the garden would more than satisfy me. But don’t tell him that. I shall come to
Poznan around the middle of the month, as he requests.

Two days ago an envoy arrived from those desolate Scots isles (why do I imagine
Scotland to be desolate?) where your niece Zwinislawa dwells. They delivered a
letter wherein she laments the premature passing of her older brother. Somehow
her words appeared to me blatantly shallow. It may be -- who can predict what
Providence has in store for us? -- that she should become your liege one day.
I can only hope that she will remember that blood is thicker than anointing
oils. She will one day, please God, be Queen, but she is first and foremost a
Poraj, just as you.

A courtier is ready to carry this letter to Poznan. No need to think on his
wages, I pay them all handsomely whenever it comes to carrying private
letters. Adieu. L.



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******​



A banquet was held to usher in the New Year. The Queen granted me leave not to attend. A quieter, more private festive luncheon was organized for the tenth of January. Afterwards, I retired to my chambers for the rest of the day.

It was past the third hour of night when there was a loud, insistent knocking on my door. “Who’s there?” I called.

The manservant who served as watchman entered. “Sire, the Lord Chancellor of Greater Poland!”

My Chancellor? Here in Krakow? I motioned to let him in.

“Lord Wratyslawicz?”

“Your Grace.” He bowed. “Forgive this intrusion at so late an hour.”

“It is rare that you absent yourself from Poznan. Will you take some wine? Sit before you spill the bad news.”

“Bad news, Sire?”

“Why else should you be here now, this late?”

“By your leave, Sire, it isn’t bad news. Not exactly.”

Of course it was. But I trusted my Chancellor. He was obviously worried about bringing on a shock. Ever since the death of Prince Laurentius, people were constantly whispering about me. I waited patiently for him to speak.

“The Spymaster has uncovered a plot,” he said gently. “Emanating from this palace.” He paused.

“Don’t tell me that surprises you, Chancellor. This palace is full of plots.”

“An assassination plot, My Lord. Against the daughter of my lord Mikael’s daughter Kunegunda.”

Oddly, I felt little emotion. Was there not a conspiracy afoot to destroy the House of Poraj? My thoughts wandered back to my own plots against the Premyslid children a lifetime ago.

The Chancellor sighed. “The instigator of this plot, according to the Spymaster is... Her Majesty the Queen.”

I do not know how long I sat there without speaking. My memory of what transpired in the next hour remains sketchy. An overwhelming consciousness of betrayal invaded my soul. Betrayal and bloodlust. The next thing I knew, my Chancellor and I were in the Reception Hall of the palace. I took from the wall one of the torches used to light the Hall. I then passed into the next room -- the Throne Room.

“Lord Wratyslawicz, bring Her Majesty here. Be quick.”

“Here, Sire? Now?”

“Yes, now.” I went to the far end of the room. It was a rectangular room whose ceiling was beautifully decorated with marquetry. Windows that reached almost to the ceiling were covered with fine wool and cotton draperies.

“Would My Lord not prefer to wait until--”

“Bring her quickly! Tell her the palace is burning!” With that, I put the torch to the curtains before me.

Four sets of curtains were aflame before I heard a ruckus approaching. I turned towards the door. I saw guards. Two of them had drawn their swords. I saw two handmaidens. Then I saw the Queen. Her entire face was contorted into an ugly mask. She was terrified.

“YOU!” I shouted. I unlatched one of the windows and threw it open. Smoke billowed outwards and the flames grew brighter.

Nobody moved. I slowly walked towards the Queen, brandishing the torch in front of me. I stopped within a yard of her velvet night-cloak and screamed at her face.

“LEAVE MY DYNASTY ALONE!”



******​



I awoke the next day in my bed. Three servants in Her Majesty’s service were fussing around me, letting daylight in, reviving the fire the hearth, pouring fresh water into a washing basin. I must have been carried back to my room during the night; I doubt I came here unassisted.

A page came in with breakfast. I was left alone to eat, after which my valet washed and dressed me. There was no energy in me whatsoever.

In the afternoon, the Queen paid me a visit. She looked as if she had aged a few years overnight.



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We left it at that. I had no other visits the rest of the day, save my Chancellor.

On the twelfth of January, I rose as usual. I ordered my valet to resume packing -- I was supposed to be spending the rest of the month in Poznan. My Steward had a feast ready!

“Bring the whole wardrobe,” I said. Somehow I knew that this time, I really was leaving Krakow for the last time. My letter of resignation would be a relief to everyone.

“As you wish, My Lord.”



******​



I stirred awake sometime in the afternoon. There were voices murmuring, a hand tapping on my left shoulder.

“That was some coup you pulled off.”

Whose voice was that? I opened an eye.

“I mean, that you and Bruno pulled off.”

“Ah!” I smiled. “Mama. It was a gamble. I knew you would like it.”

“I do!”

“There will be Porajes left somewhere on this earth, at least.”

“You worry too much. Everything will be fine. Now, up! The Poraj family reunion is waiting in Poznan.”



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******​




It was the strangest of sights. Adelinde and I, my siblings Rosalind and David, the Council members and other courtiers stood at the docks of Kalisz. Papa’s remains were arriving by river. We were all dressed in mourning attire, but the barge that came down from Krakow resembled nothing so much as a hero’s triumphant procession. The barge was bedecked as for royalty. Thirty smaller boats followed in its wake, while dozens courtiers in their finest livery stood at attention. From reports of how my father had deliberately set fire to the Throne Room, no one was expecting such a show. Truly, palace politics are a mysterious thing.

But perhaps stranger still was the change that came over me. I saw -- or knew -- things differently. I knew about our family’s history, but as I stood there on the river’s edge to receive Papa’s sarcophagus, I knew a lot more than I ever remembered knowing. Papa had often talked about his hopes for a great dynasty; now I understood far better than before what he meant. Moreover, it was what I wanted now too, in a way I had never wanted it before.

I needed gold, and I needed the power that only conquest could give. Immediately after Papa’s funeral, I gave the Marshal orders to prepare for war. The Lithuanian tribes of Trakai on our eastern border were an excellent target, and they had no known allies. But even as our fighting men rallied and prepared, a peasant revolt broke out in Stettin. In a way, it was a stroke of luck. I could down two birds with one stone.

The peasants were the first order of business. I decided to lead my men myself. Victory came quickly, and with it a more deeply rooted courage.



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Around the same time, Adelinde gave birth to another girl. We named her Laetizia, for she was such a happy thing from the moment she opened her eyes. Lord Wratyslawicz, whom I retained as Chancellor, completed a set of forged documents allowing me to lay claim to the Pomeranian province of Weligrad. He had been working on them for a number of years. Greater Poland’s future was looking brighter every day.

Just fifteen months after succeeding to Papa’s titles, Queen Jadwiga’s curious brand of politics became manifest in another way. In memory of the Magnificent Duke Laurentius, and to honour his years of loyal service to the Crown, the Queen had decided to make me a gift of the province of Weligrad. Her army mobilized forthwith. The province fell just over a year later, in the summer of 1142.



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Celebrations on a grand scale were in order. My good intentions were deflated, however, through vicious rumours.

“The Queen is showing signs of lunacy,” my Spymaster reported. “Retired courtiers whisper that she has inherited King Boleslaw’s madness. So far, though, the Queen’s Council continue to acknowledge her rule.”

A few months later, the Lithuanian tribes of Trakai conceded defeat. That in itself constituted legitimate cause for celebration. We combined it with another feast of a more private nature: my sister Rosalind, recently come of age, was given in matrimony to the Count of Ferrara, an acquaintance of my wife’s family.



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The news of the conquest of Trakai put me yet again in the Queen’s line of vision. Her congratulatory letter contained more than mere courtly etiquette.



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Her offer flattered and tormented me at the same time. Becoming Marshal of Poland would mean living in Krakow. In some uncanny fashion, I shared Papa’s apprehensions about going to live there. On the other hand, much was to be gained from such a position. In the end, I accepted her offer.

Adelinde, our two girls and I moved to Krakow soon after the Feast of Epiphany in 1143. We were greeted by the dire announcement that Queen Jadwiga was confined to her Royal Apartments. There was no more room for doubt: she was no longer sound of mind, and not so very sound of body. After the light-hearted atmosphere at Poznan, the gloom of Krakow came as a shock. Fortunately for Her Majesty -- and for us, incidentally -- her suffering was short-lived.



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As was customary, the announcement of Queen Jadwiga’s death was followed by a happier proclamation. The entire realm was invited to acclaim its new monarch, Queen Jadwiga’s one and only surviving child and her legitimate heir: my niece Zwinislawa, Countess of Innse Gall and now Queen of Poland.



******​
 
I. 15. A Secret Brotherhood Comes To Light



Adelinde and I had planned on leaving Krakow after my niece’s coronation. A new monarch meant a new Council. I hadn’t counted on my niece putting her trust in someone she didn’t know, even if that someone was a close relative.



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I accepted. I wanted to get to know this relative of mine, as well as her children.

The first few months of Zwinislawa’s reign were exciting. As usual with a change of régime -- not to mention a change of dynasty -- there were some expressions of disgruntled disappointment. As Marshal, I saw to it that order was maintained throughout the realm. Although there were factions, they kept quiet. Zwinislawa’s policy was one of appeasement. The result was that I was left with virtually nothing to do.

A Crusade to liberate Jerusalem was under way. Queen Jadwiga had declined to take part. With the Crusaders now taking the upper hand, I urged Zwinislawa to send her troops to the Holy Land. She could only benefit from sharing in the final victory. Sadly, she didn’t see it that way.

“Is all the expense truly worth it, Uncle? You have admitted it would be a shared glory. I doubt anyone would even notice that our men were taking part.”

Her lack of enthusiasm chagrined me at first. In the end, she was shown to have chosen the wiser course when Pope Nicolas suddenly called off the Crusade.



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The months turned to years. Zwinislawa was resolved to stay aloof from conflict, whatever its nature. I feared that attitude would send a signal of weakness to Poland’s neighbors. The Queen and the majority of her courtiers would not be swayed. Life at Court became numbingly boring. With no military scores keeping me busy, courtiers high and low sought me out in an attempt to drag me into their frivolous, futile intrigues.



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Not even a serious feud between the Pope and the Kaiser was enough to burst the bubble of ignorant bliss that engulfed Krakow. An anti-Pope was installed in the Prince-Bishopric of Nice. To the Queen and her coterie, that sun-bathed province seemed too far away to be worth taking notice of.

In frustration, I spent more and more time in my own demesnes. A kinswoman, the Countess of Lubusz, was making no secret of her own bloody intrigues. My Court Chaplain, on the other hand, made fine progress bringing the newly conquered Lithuanian tribes of Trakai into Our Lord’s welcoming arms.



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Then my brother David came of age. With time on my hands, I was able to negotiate a magnificent match for him. King Henry IV of France, of the House of Capet, granted him the hand of the Princess Élodie. The young couple were joined in matrimony and installed in a comfortable mansion in Poznan.

In June of the year 1149, Adelinde gave birth to a son. We named him Alexander. Adelinde and I remained in Poznan until after Christmas. To shake off an alarming sense of lethargy, I declared war on the Lithuanian tribes of Vilnius, a large and potentially wealthy province. The annexation of Vilnius was only thwarted because the Lithuanian Chieftain managed to get himself baptized. My Holy War of conquest was aborted, and I returned to my non-duties in Krakow.

That was when Divine Providence intervened, and the Lord, in his mercy, sent an angel to alleviate my misery.



******​



One morning in early spring, Poland’s Spymaster was gossiping about the Scots courtiers in attendance on the Royal Children when the subject shifted to their education, and then to the subject of wandering preachers. One side effect of having an anti-Pope was a seemingly unending supply of self-proclaimed prophets. One such a man had appeared in Krakow. Crowds thronged to hear him, mostly to laugh at him, the Spymaster claimed. I listened to his banter with half an ear, but was suddenly alerted by a passing comment.

“Amongst other sins, he claims to have belonged once to a secret brotherhood whose singular distinction was to vow to seek out and destroy anyone related to Saint Adalbert of Prague.”

The Spymaster’s audience dutifully guffawed.



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I listened a few minutes more, but the subject shifted again to the strange and uncouth manners of the Scots. I slipped away, as I often did at Court, and went straight to my rooms where I gave instructions to the most trustworthy guardsman in my retinue.

“There is an itinerant preacher drawing crowds within the city. A loner, some say a hermit, more probably an ex-bandit or mercenary, definitely a man familiar with knife and sword. Bring him to me.”

The guardsman found him the next day. He was a tall, gaunt, disheveled man past his prime. What teeth he retained seemed in good health, his eyes were clear, not opaque, his beard was filthy, his Polish barely comprehensible and dripping with a Bohemian accent.

“I hear you have repented of the evil ways of your past,” I began as my 'guest' stood before me.

“The Lord is rich in mercy, slow to anger. He does not turn away the sinner who--”

“I too will be slow to anger and rich in mercy -- and in gold: on one condition. Tell me about your connection to Saint Adalbert.”

It was a simple tale, in some ways predictable, in others quite intricate. Not even he, I came to believe, could have invented such a story. The fact that he was not excessively eager to share it made it more credible.

He had been in it for the money. He possessed hands expert in the arts of thievery and murder. Many paid him well for his expertise. But one day he had been approached by a very special agent, with a very special offer. He could join a very exclusive Brotherhood. These men were legion, but unknown to each other. The life’s-work of this secret brotherhood was to save a Noble House from a danger. The only way to do that was to seek out and annihilate that House’s sworn enemy: the sons of the family of Saint Adalbert.

“You’re lying,” I said. “Saint Adalbert was a great and holy man. He was celibate. He had no children, and all his kin were murdered in Prague.”

“I were no scholar, My Lord,” he replied. “The man talked. I listened.”

“Who talked?”

“He never gave a name. Names forbade.”

“What House?”

“No names, My Lord! Never no names!”

“You don’t know whose house you vowed to protect? Ridiculous. You’re lying.”

“I were drawing the noble sir’s shield!” he exclaimed.

I sent a page to fetch parchment and ink. When it came, the man instantly set himself to work. There was no hesitation at all. In moments he had produced the heraldic coat of the House of Premyslid.

“Tell me this, then: who are the sons of Saint Adalbert?”

“The Devil marks his own, they said. The harelip breeds over the whole family.”

I froze in my chair. I hoped he sensed nothing.

“The harelip appears in many families,” I said. “It’s common.”

“That it do, My Lord. That be why seek first, they said. Names they wanted, even they never gave none of their own. Names is what they seeked. The man talked, I gave him names, people I see with the harelip. If he liked my names, he sended me to kill.”

“Did they ever like a name you gave them?” I asked.

Only once. A boy from a Carpathian village between Hungary and Bohemia. The boy was four. He had the harelip, as did his father. The mercenary before me had received 'permission' to slit their throats.

The man had little else to say. He had never met any of his 'Brothers'. He had fled his secret contact because the End was near. Infidels blaspheming day and night in Jerusalem, an anti-Christ in Nice, Christians turning against Christians -- Armageddon was coming, he had no further use for an imperiled Noble House.

“I want you to start again. From the beginning,” I said. “My scribe will write down what you say.”

“I know my letters!” the man cried.

I gaped at him, incredulous. Taking the parchment from my scribe, I handed the folios to my guest.

His handwriting was abominable, the grammar worse, but an illiterate he was not. Wonders never cease !



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I let him go with a pouch full of gold coin. That evening, I set about copying his testimony in a neat, legible hand and comprehensible grammar. Facing the facts, I had only his word for what he claimed. But it confirmed what Papa had learned so many years before from his own unique source, the Augustinian Canon. Many questions yet required answers. Who was behind the secret brotherhood? Who were the unnamed contacts? Obviously one of the Premyslids could enlighten me, but I was not about to let them know that I was interested in their murderous conspiracy. I had a family to protect. Though none of us harboured the “Poraj mouth” as Papa used to call it, there was no telling when it might resurface.

Courtiers everywhere knew that the harelip trait ran in my family. How long before that easily obtained piece of knowledge fell into the hands of another member of the secret brotherhood? I had to take action, somehow.

Unbeknownst to me, Bohemia already had her evil eye fixed on Poland.



******​
 
They sound ever more dangerous.
 
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