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Table of Contents
  • As it turns out, I couldn't resist getting started on the EUIV megacampaign. Ah well. Without further ado, here is:

    thinwedge.png

    The starting character here is Róbert - also referred to colloquially as Bertík, Červeník, Bertík-Zobák or Robin (le Bec) - Rychnovský, who also happens to have been the ending character from my Crusader Kings III game which I imported with the conversion tool. His consort is Elisabet Totilsdotter Vasa; his eldest son is Vojtech Rychnovský, and he has a grandson through Vojtech named Bohodar. Apologies if there is any confusion about the characterisation here, particularly about his stutter or other past events that are given merely passing reference; I promise that it will make sense once I get to the end of my other AAR.

    So, with regard to the EU4 DLC and content expansions that I'm using. In the gameplay, I used:
    - Conquest of Paradise
    - El Dorado
    - Art of War
    - Third Rome (after 1594 in gameplay)
    - Rights of Man (after 1674 in gameplay)

    For flavour, I ended up going back and using the Rights of Man DLC on saves prior to 1674 in-game. I loaded the static saves with RoM enabled and took notes on the way my kings' and heirs' personalities shaped up, as well as the names and personalities of their consorts. That DOES NOT APPEAR in the gameplay or in the screenshots. Weird as it may sound, I am using RoM not for the game mechanics in the early years but only for storytelling purposes.

    Anyway, to get started with the Table of Contents:


    Table of Contents
    Act I. From the Carpathian Wars to the Fall of House Rychnovský
    (1 January 1453 – 31 January 1661)

    ONE. New Horizons
    TWO. The Valiant
    THREE. Nordgau and Luleå
      Interlude I. Untitled
    FOUR. Detvanský and Khovanský - Parts I, II and III
    FIVE. From Keminmaa to Kem'
    SIX. The May Day War - Parts I, II and III
    SEVEN. The Short Reign of Vojtech 4.
    EIGHT. With a Young King in Between - Parts I, II, III, IV and V
    NINE. The Soirée
    TEN. The Ivan Žerotínov Act
    ELEVEN. Detvanský and Khovanský (Again)
    TWELVE. Consolidation
    THIRTEEN. A Branch Takes Root
    FOURTEEN. The Sale of the Thaya
    FIFTEEN. Bolts in the Baltic
    SIXTEEN. Bážá Ruigi
    SEVENTEEN. Northern Expansion
      Interlude II. A Matter of Perspective
    EIGHTEEN. The Ascent of Kráľ Jozef
    NINETEEN. Moravian Laponia
    TWENTY. Vyřkedant
    TWENTY-ONE. The Sale of the Viedenský Les
    TWENTY-TWO. The Deaths of the Sons of Prokop
    TWENTY-THREE. Labourers in the Vineyard
    TWENTY-FOUR. The Lord Is a Man of War
    TWENTY-FIVE. The Valley of Berachah - Parts I and II
    TWENTY-SIX. On Bosnian Breviloquence
    TWENTY-SEVEN. Protectorate of Kola
    TWENTY-EIGHT. (Ain’t It Funny How the) Type Moves
    TWENTY-NINE. Dolné Sliezsko
    THIRTY. Guilds and Generals
    THIRTY-ONE. At the Gates of al-Mawṣil
    THIRTY-TWO. The Manufactory
    THIRTY-THREE. Podolie - Parts I, II, III and IV
    THIRTY-FOUR. Otakar’s Penance
    THIRTY-FIVE. It’s Scientific
    THIRTY-SIX. Productivity, Plague and Purkyne - Parts I and II
      Interlude III. Between Worst and Best
    THIRTY-SEVEN. The Defeat - Parts I and II
    THIRTY-EIGHT. Despotizmus a zmenkizmus
    THIRTY-NINE. The Long Ladder
    FORTY. Vindication - Parts I and II
    FORTY-ONE. Bells and Bulbs
    FORTY-TWO. … Would Smell as Sweet
    FORTY-THREE. A Fortress Too Far
    FORTY-FOUR. Calm before the Storm
    FORTY-FIVE. The Regency of Alžbeta Kafendová
      Interlude IV. When Guards Change, So Does Policy
    FORTY-SIX. Educating a King
    FORTY-SEVEN. Seeds of Change
    FORTY-EIGHT. Zbor
    FORTY-NINE. Belong to Us - Parts I, II and III
    FIFTY. Moravians in Newfoundland
    FIFTY-ONE. New Heresies, Old Rivalries
    FIFTY-TWO. The Lady of the Volga
    FIFTY-THREE. A Mill on the Kama
    FIFTY-FOUR. A Well-Grounded Practice
    FIFTY-FIVE. Medium Roast
    FIFTY-SIX. The War of the Carpathian Succession - Parts I and II
      Interlude V. Two Sides of the Coin

    Act II. From the Belgorod Zemsky Sobor to the Scandal of Ostrava
    (14 April 1661 – 2 April 1752)
    ONE. Zemsky Sobor in Belgorod
    TWO. Counter-Reform
    THREE. Reorganisation of the North
    FOUR. Jaromír
    FIVE. Waters of Tribute
    SIX. Munitions and Metropolitans
    SEVEN. Landfried and Livonia
    EIGHT. Imma
    NINE. The Northern Expansion - Parts I and II
    TEA. One Lump or Two?
    ELEVEN. Khilkova’s Eastern Campaign
    TWELVE. Die bayerische Aufklärung
      Interlude VI. Dingolfing's Bookmark
    THIRTEEN.
    FOURTEEN.

    Act III. From the Hradecko Settlements to the Collapse of Revolutionary Asturias
    (2 April 1752 – 4 December 1817)





    table_of_moravian_rulers.png
    Ruler Name
    Reign
    House
    Consorts and Issue
    Mojmír 1.​
    830-846​
    Mojmír​
    unknown woman, at least 1 child
    Rastislav​
    846-870​
    Mojmír​
    Jaromila, 1 child
    Bratromila*​
    870-917​
    Mojmír​
    Chlothar Karling-Bari, 6 children
    Chlothar mladší*
    917-924​
    Karling-Bari​
    Alexandrina Hrabar, 5 children
    Viera z Nitrava, 1 child
    Bohodar slovoľubec†​
    911​
    Rychnovský​
    Mechthild of Stuttgart, 6 children​
    Bohodar 1. mladší†​
    911-944​
    Rychnovský​
    Blažena Rychnovská, 7 children​
    Pravoslav​
    944-982​
    Rychnovský​
    Marija Kobilića, 7 children
    Radomír 1. hrozný
    982-1001​
    Rychnovský​
    Raina Srednogorska, 5 children
    [Kvetoslava, 1 natural child]
    Jakub​
    1001-1025​
    Rychnovský​
    Eirēnē Drougouvitissa, 6 children
    Eustach staviteľ chrámu
    1025-1068​
    Rychnovský​
    Dolz de Touraine, 4 children
    Tomáš 1.​
    1068-1107​
    Rychnovský​
    Ricciarda da Castro Arquato, 6 children
    Bohodar 2. odvážny
    1107-1125​
    Rychnovský​
    Alitz Hrabar, 5 children
    Prisnec 1.​
    1125-1146​
    Rychnovský​
    Viera Rychnovská, 5 children
    Radomír 2.​
    1146-1155​
    Rychnovský​
    Æþelswíþ Wulfgifusdohtor, 4 children
    Bohodar 3. letopisár
    1155-1199​
    Rychnovský​
    Árpád-Hotin Czenzi, 8 children
    Vojtech 1.​
    1199-1203​
    Rychnovský​
    Kostislava Balharská-Borsa, 5 children
    Želimír​
    1203-1220​
    Rychnovský​
    Živana Rychnovská-Lehnice, 8 children
    Kaloján chrabrý
    1220-1268​
    Rychnovský​
    Bohumila Rychnovská-Nisa, 9 children
    Radomír 3.​
    1268-1305​
    Rychnovský​
    Lucia of Kráľovec, 8 children
    Bohodar 4.​
    1305-1329​
    Rychnovský​
    Pribislava of Ňamec, 5 children
    Vojtech 2.​
    1329-1337​
    Rychnovský​
    Alexandrina Komnenia, 2 children
    Lodovica da Ponte, 5 children
    Radomír 4.​
    1337-1388​
    Rychnovský​
    Katarína Koceľová, 10 children
    Ostromír​
    1388-1407​
    Rychnovský​
    Ermissinde ‘Imma’ de Vasconia-Boulogne, 5 children
    Vojtech 3.​
    1407-1414​
    Rychnovský​
    Adriana, 4 children
    Róbert​
    1414-1468​
    Rychnovský​
    Elisabet ‘Ilse’ Totilsdatter Vasa, 5 children
    Vojtech 4.​
    1468-1472​
    Rychnovský​
    Predslava, 5 children
    Prokop posmrtný
    1472-1519​
    Rychnovský​
    Helene Mosienková, 10 children
    Jozef​
    1519-1531​
    Rychnovský​
    Lesana Sokolová, 1 child
    Tomáš 2.​
    1531-1608​
    Rychnovský​
    Milomíra Sokolová, 3 children
    Otakar​
    1608-1623​
    Rychnovský​
    Vasilisa Štefánikova, 1 child
    Prisnec 2.​
    1623​
    Rychnovský​
    --
    Mojmír 2.​
    1623-1672​
    Hlinka​
    Svietlana Kotúľová, 3 children
    Jaromír​
    1672-1681​
    Hlinka​
    Mislava Cikkerová, 4 children
    Judita​
    1681-​
    Hlinka​
    Landfried von Asch, 5 children
    * Ruler of eastern Moravia during the Partition, 911-924.
    † Ruler of western Moravia during the Partition, 911-924. Moravia was reunified under Bohodar 1. in 924.



    medieval_moravian_saints.png

    Equals-to-the-Apostles Cyril and Methodius, Teachers of the Slavs [historical]
    +869, f.d. 11 May
    Brothers according to the flesh, as well as according to the habit of monastics.
    They were invited into the realm of Moravia to preach the word of Christ to the Slavs.
    They created the Cyrillic writing system which is used to this day by many Slavic languages.

    Righteous Prince Rastislav (Mojmírov) of Moravia [historical]
    +870, f.d. 11 May
    Just and high-minded Moravian king who invited the monastic brothers Ss. Cyril and Methodius to teach the Moravians about Christ.
    [In actual history] Was murdered by his ambitious nephew Svätopluk in a bid for power.
    [In this AAR] Was ousted by his Silesian vassal Wratyslaw in a bid for power.

    This megacampaign AAR is a continuing work of fiction.
    All characters described below this line are entirely fictitious.
    Any resemblance to actual persons who are dead in the world but alive in Christ is coincidental.


    Saint Vojmil, Archbishop of Moravia
    +887, f.d. 15 August
    First Orthodox archbishop of Moravia, credited with preserving the Faith in that land.

    Martyr Radomír (Rychnovský) of Horné Hlohov
    +894, f.d. 25 March
    Son of Bohodar Slovoľubec who was killed in battle by heathen Danes during a battle with Lusatia.
    Considered a martyr. Often depicted holding an axe, the weapon he was killed by.

    Blessed Liutbald, Fool-for-Christ
    +910, f.d. 14 October
    Also called Leopold. A hermit and holy man who lived near Olomouc.
    Reproached Bohodar 1. for his incest, and predicted Pravoslav’s manner of death.

    Saint Kochan (Žatecký) of Voden
    +936, f.d. 29 August
    Czech lord of Žatec, who fell in battle against the Norsemen while helping to defend the Eastern Emperor.
    Considered a martyr because he was killed by heathen in the defence of the Faith.

    Saint Tas (Přemyslovec) of Boleslav
    +952, f.d. 7 August
    Lord of Boleslav, who was renowned as a tutor and mentor to King Pravoslav.
    Revered by the Church as a model of faithfulness and loyalty.

    Saint Mutimír (Bijelahrvatskić) ‘the Leper’ of Šariš
    +981, f.d. 3 September
    A White Croat nobleman who contracted an incurable skin condition from an infected wound in battle.
    He carried this affliction in patience and without complaint, and met his death in a Christlike way.
    He is sometimes portrayed carrying, or wearing, the gown and wrappings of a leper.

    Saint Lada (Rychnovská), Enlightener of Silesia
    +987, f.d. 15 February
    Half-Avar granddaughter of Bohodar Slovoľubec, sometimes called ‘the Fury’.
    She was the one responsible for converting the Silesians to Orthodox Christianity.
    She is often depicted in icons holding in her hand the church at Budín.

    Venerable Petra ‘the Historian’
    +998, f.d. 28 December
    A learned nun who assisted in the compilation of the Rozprávky z leta dávno preč.
    Her life was threatened by Radomír the Terrible.
    At first she refused to flee because she did not fear martyrdom, but being obedient to her abbess and to the archbishop
    she took shelter, so as not to cause Radomír occasion for sin.

    Saint Barbara ‘the Iconographer’
    +1000, f.d. 3 December
    A holy woman with the gift of prophecy, who dedicated an icon of Saint Eustathios to the Rychnovský royal family.
    Several of Saint Barbara’s icons have been credited with working wonders.

    Righteous Jakub (Rychnovský), King of Moravia
    +1025, f.d. 25 June
    Also called James, or ‘the Black Lion’. First Rychnovský king to be glorified by the Moravian Orthodox Church.
    Considered a loving father and a model of princely virtues who defended Moravia successfully from the heathen.

    Saint Retta Geteye (Yostos) the Mooress
    +1039, f.d. 14 July
    Also called Nikē in some Greek sources.
    A zealous pilgrim from Abyssinia who befriended Queen Dolz, and brought back relics of Saint Cyril to her country to be venerated.
    One of the rare Miaphysite saints to be glorified in a Chalcedonian church.

    Saint Svätopluk (Mojmírov) of Tekov
    +1042, f.d. 20 January
    A righteous and loyal nobleman of the Slovak lands, who gave aid and succour to those who served under him.
    Considered a saint more for his charitable work in his old age than for his military service.

    Saint Čestislava (Pavelková) of Siget
    +1073, f.d. 8 June
    Uhro-Rusin kňažná of Podkarpatská who was imprisoned and then later released on an oath of fealty by King Eustach of Moravia.
    She was sainted on account of her advocating for peace between Eustach and his Orthodox neighbours, and also for her efforts to Christianise the Rus’ under Magyar sway.

    Saints Berhanu and Lulit (Sehul), the Moorish Pilgrims
    +1073 and +1081, f.d. 12 May
    A married couple of pilgrims from Abyssinia who chose to sell all they had at home
    and live near the relics of Saint Cyril and Saint Methodius, serving the Church the rest of their lives.
    They were the parents of Archbishop Ezana (Sehul) of Moravia.

    Saint John ‘the Blind’, Bishop of Prague
    +1123, f.d. 22 February
    A Neapolitan bishop of the Czechs who travelled and wrote extensively despite his inability to see.
    It was said that the Lord guided his steps in the holy places, and that he wrote with his heart rather than his eyes.

    Saint Miroslav, Bishop of Nitra
    +1142, f.d. 15 July
    One of the great theological minds of Moravian Orthodoxy, active during the reign of King Prisnec 1.
    Authored several devotional texts which were of great popularity beginning in the fourteenth century.
    Famously excommunicated Knieža Vojmil of Nitra during his rebellion against the Moravian crown.

    Venerable Milo (Rychnovský) ‘the Recluse’
    +1171, f.d. 5 August
    Also called Miloboj. Younger brother of King Radomír 2.
    Renounced the world and fled into the mountains where he lived as a hermit.
    Known for his gentleness of spirit and forgiveness against transgressors.
    He was a notable influence on King Bohodar 3.

    Venerable Jaroslav (Rychnovský) of Krásny Brod
    +1182, f.d. 9 April
    Younger brother of King Radomír 2, who later became an abbot.
    He was a spiritual father to many monks at Krásny Brod, and was said to have raised up an entire generation of saints in his house of prayer.

    Saint Pribina, Bishop of Siget
    +1210, f.d. 10 July
    A great Moravian bishop and spiritual author who tenderly shepherded the flock of Uhro-Rusins under his care.
    As well as having an austere ascetic rule for himself, he gave away all his wealth upon becoming a bishop
    and then gave away anything which came to him, to people who needed it most.
    He authored two major devotional writings based on the Books of Isaiah and Jeremiah. Many of his homilies touched on the concerns of the poor.

    Venerable Rodana (Rychnovská) ‘the Physician’ of Vaucouleurs
    +1221, f.d. 15 August
    Sister of King Bohodar 3. Letopisár.
    She renounced all personal wealth to become a monastic healer, who offered her services to all without asking any repayment (an ‘unmercenary’).
    She was responsible for many healing miracles during her life, and her relics continued to work wonders after her death.

    Saint Budimír ‘of the Crozier’, Archbishop of Moravia
    + 1221, f.d. 1 November
    Most famous for remonstrating physically with King Želimír over his embrace of the neo-Adamite heresy.
    Credited with maintaining the Moravian monarchy in the Orthodox faith.

    Saint Prokop, Bishop of Břeh
    +1223, f.d. 9 March
    Silesian bishop who was famed for his generosity.
    Served during the reign of King Želimír.

    Blessed Sjätopolk (Koceľuk) of Berehovo, Fool-for-Christ
    +1245, f.d. 29 September
    An Uhro-Rusin nobleman of Berehovo, who had a successful career as a military strategist,
    before he gave away all his possessions, chose to subsist only on wild vegetables and lived like a wild man in the Carpathian Mountains,
    coming only into the town to partake of the Eucharist. Honoured in all the Russian lands as well as in Moravia.

    Saint Spitihnev, Archbishop of Moravia
    +1252, f.d. 8 January
    Spiritual father and advisor to the great King Kaloján chrabrý.
    Stringently ascetic and deeply austere towards himself, but kind and forgiving to others.
    He encouraged honour and valour among the družinniki, but also forgiveness and mercy upon the weak.

    Great-Martyr Dorotea (Rychnovská) of Utrecht
    +1320, f.d. 2 January
    Also called Dorothy. Daughter of Bohodar 4., martyred by Frisian Adamites after being taken prisoner.
    She appeared after her death during the Battle of Znojmo in 1320, to save the life of King Bohodar 4. who had fallen in the battle.

    Saint Bohumil (Lukinič) the Confessor, Bishop of Silesia, and the 594 Silesian martyrs with him
    +1368, f.d. 9 December
    Orthodox bishop of Silesia during the reign of the Catholic Oleg Rychnovský-Nisa.
    During Oleg’s reign, he persecuted the Orthodox Church, which the devout Bohumil resisted.
    He was arrested, imprisoned, and ultimately died in prison.
    In addition, 594 Orthodox Christians lost their lives under Oleg’s rule and the Latin inquisitions that followed.

    Saint Kvetoslava (Rychnovská) of Spíš
    +1411, f.d. 19 April
    Eldest daughter of Radomír 4. Became a nun upon the death of her husband, the Hrabě of Spíš.
    Was famous for her dedicated prayers and deep knowledge of Scripture, as well as for her wondrous works of healing.

    Righteous Vojtech (3. Rychnovský), King of Moravia
    +1414, f.d. 19 December
    The second of the Rychnovský rulers to attain sainthood.
    A fair-minded and kind-hearted ruler, his wrongful suffering and death at the hands of a malicious, scheming physician
    was largely considered to have been Christlike, even if it was not in odium Fidei.




    medieval_malopolskan_saints.png

    Three of these saints were causes of the Malopolskan Synod Disputes of the 1600s and 1700s.


    Saint Ilia (Aqhazar) the Former Jew of Sadec
    +971, f.d. 1 September
    Also called Ilık. A Karaite Khazar who sought refuge in Pravoslav’s court, and converted to Orthodoxy.
    He was steadfastly loyal to Pravoslav, proved himself in battle, and was granted overlordship of Sadec,
    which afterward became the most notable safe haven for Jews in Central Europe. He fell at the battle of Jihlava against the English.

    Righteous Koceľ (Kubínský) of Tarnov
    +1039, f.d. 13 November
    A Lesser Polish nobleman who was famed for his generosity.
    He established numerous Orthodox houses of worship in Tarnov and funded many hospitals and wayhouses.

    Equal-to-the-Apostles Prince László (Árpád-Temesvár) of Hungary, Enlightener of Poland
    +1072, f.d. 8 May
    Hungarian king who led a Magyar invasion of Lesser Poland and converted the native Slavs to Christianity.
    Widely regarded as a patient and diligent monarch who earnestly enforced justice.

    Saint Svätoslava (Aqhazar) of Sadec
    +1082, f.d. 7 August
    A direct descendant of Saint Ilia, who suffered from demonic possession and numerous illnesses,
    who undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and was healed by touching the ground near where Christ lay.
    She devoted her life afterward to the aid of pilgrims, and funded numerous hospitals and hostels along the Jerusalem Road.

    Saint Kunhuta (or Cynegund) of Sandomierz
    +1096, f.d. 16 August
    A Lesser Polish noblewoman, notable for her donations to the poor and to hospitals. Controversial.

    Saint Oleg (Tunavský) of Krakóv
    +1207, f.d. 13 December
    A Lesser Polish nobleman, famous for his fasting and his attention to the prayers of the Church.
    Sponsored numerous Orthodox temples throughout Lesser Poland. Controversial.

    Venerable Chrysē (or Zlata) of Nitrava
    +1260, f.d. 12 March
    A common-born female ascetic who lived in Lesser Poland. She adopted the life of a nun after the death of her husband.
    She was famous not only for her fasting rule but also for her deep humility and long-suffering, and she was a spiritual mother to many saints in Moravia and Poland.

    Righteous Symeon of Lublin
    +1444, f.d. 19 March
    A Lesser Polish nobleman of Lublin who was renowned for his hospitality, and who undertook a pilgrimage to Constantinople. Controversial.
     
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    Act I Chapter One
  • ttwoe-act1.png



    ONE.
    New Horizons
    1 January 1453

    eu4_2a.png


    eu4_3a.png

    Ilse Totilsdotter adjusted her husband’s mantle for the second time, standing in front of the full-length glass with him to make sure that it looked correct and fitting. Kráľ Róbert of Moravia should not make an appearance without making the proper impression, after all – though that was getting a bit more difficult of late. There were wide streaks of grey in his once bright red beard, and his belly was getting wider and flabbier with each passing year. Bertík saw his Swedish wife give him a wry smile over his shoulder, and he caressed the hand that was adjusting his mantle. He knew what that smile meant, just as she knew what the touch he returned her did. The loving old royal couple had long since passed any need for words over such gestures. Bertík knew that his wife had little trust in any of the three estates, and especially not the clergy. However, in him she placed full trust. And Ilse knew that he knew.

    ‘Well, my job is done,’ Ilse said complacently, returning to her desk and her chair and her second daily full glass of Moravian riesling. Over a substantial sip, she smirked beneath her elfin cheeks: ‘I don’t envy you yours, though. I’m glad I’m not the one to break the bad news to the Stavovské Zhromaždenie.’

    Bertík broke into a full grin through his grey-streaked red beard. ‘You s—sure you don’t want to be there yourself for the sh—show?’

    Ilse held up one well-kept hand as she took another sip of wine. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Even if it is the middle of the Christmas feast and I should be used to such boisterous revelry, I’d rather not end up on the receiving end of a flying piece of furniture. I leave that to the man with the hammer.’

    ‘Thank you much for that,’ Bertík gave a sarcastic nod to his wife. ‘I’m glad to have your full confidence.’

    Ilse waved the same hand and smirked into her glass. Róbert broke into a smile once more and grabbed his beloved war-hammer Pazúr before he strode out the door and down the stairs to the feast-hall. Bright white draperies still festooned the hall, and roaring fires and boisterous laughter and carolling quickly met his ears. The Icon of the Nativity still held the place of honour in the hall, before which stood a triple-candle stand. Wreaths and candles still adorned the tables, and the mouthwatering scents of rich savoury meats, finely-aged cheeses, spiced wine and the rich egg-laden bread of the Christmas feast greeted his nose – a welcome change from the sauerkraut and mushrooms and meatless lentil soups of the fast which had come before! As he entered the hall, the boisterous revelry and carolling continued, though it was joined by shouts of ‘Your Majesty!’ and ‘The King in the hall!

    Róbert smiled, and strode forward. He rapped Pazúr sharply twice on the table in front of him to get everyone’s attention. When he had it, he gave the greeting:

    K—Kristus sa narodíl!

    And then came the roaring reply:

    Oslávte Ho!

    Róbert went on, a bit laboriously as usual when confronted with a large throng of people: ‘We h—h—hope you are all enj—j—joying Our d—delicious feast here in O—O—Olomouc. It has b—been a pleasure to s—see all your f—faces again, that We may g—give g—g—glory t—t—together, Ch—Ch—Czech and S—Slovak as equals, to the newb—n—new—newborn K—King of All!’

    eu4_12a.png

    Thankfully, the gathering was still enthusiastic and spirited enough to reply: ‘Hurá! Hurá! Hurá!

    ‘And n—now,’ Bertík said, ‘We h—have a few w—words We w—would like to sh—sh—share with Our S—S—St—Stavovté Z—Z—Zo—Zhromažd—d—denie.

    The high lords, town notables and men of the cloth there gathered, who were all part of the Assembly of the Estates which he was addressing, turned to face him with particular attention, their faces growing a little wary from his sudden shift in tone. The hall grew suddenly hushed, save for a vague ripple of worried murmuring.

    ‘We h—have g—given the order,’ Róbert told them, ‘that a h—ha—ha—half-tithe of all h—holdings in all M—Moravia, is t—to be given over at—at—at once for Our p—p—personal ow—ownership and use. Ev—even now, Our levies a—are going th—throughout the c—country to c—collect the t—t—titles.’

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    WHAT?!’ roared Jaromír Rychnovský-Nisa, the Vojvoda of Slieszko. ‘That is utterly outrageous! You expect us to just hand over our lands to you meekly and without question?’

    ‘And in the very midst of the Christmas feast, too?’ added the Metropolitan Bishop Ladislav of Olomouc. ‘It’s impious, and thoroughly out of keeping with the season!’

    ‘You can’t possibly imagine,’ snarled Vojvoda Demid Mikulčick‎ý of Nitra, ‘that such a shameless and naked tyranny and abuse of power will be left unanswered!’

    A threatening buzz, like a swarm of hornets taking flight, began to echo throughout the chamber, reverberating against the stone walls. There was a wave of angry gestures and a flurry of activity as the nobles and town worthies of Moravia began to stand in protest. Shouts of ‘tyranny’ and ‘shame’ began to erupt from the long benches. A gnawed-clean ham bone came sailing through the air and struck the edge of the high table. The brow of the bearded king darkened in sudden anger, and the head of Pazúr came down again on the table with a single thunderous crack.

    At once, a hush fell over the room. Stammer and trip over his words though he might, no one dared tempt Kráľ Róbert’s wrath too far. The memory of Horislav Velehradský’s painful doom when he had made the fatal mistake of publicly challenging the king in front of his court was still fresh in many minds.

    ‘It g—grieves Us d—deeply,’ Róbert growled, ‘to have s—such ung—g—grateful, d—disob—b—bedient and unr—ruly subjects! B—but We h—have n—not finished. We have s—s—summoned the Zhromaždenie f—for a c—consultation. Th—the f—funds raised from—from these l—lands, w—will be used to c—complete one un—un—und—undertaking s—s—suggested by the l—lords s—s—secular and religious, and the t—t—townsfolk g—gathered here.’

    The buzz came back, but it was a little less threatening and stormy than it had been, as the gathered men talked with each other over whether the king was entitled to do this by right, what it would mean for the realm, and—if such a thing was to be countenanced—what manner of project they ought best to insist upon his completing. Eventually, though, it was Metropolitan Ladislav who, in consultation with the black-robed priests among the company, stepped forward.

    ‘Your Grace,’ the bishop said, ‘it is still grievous to me and to my fellow clergy here present, that you would do something so heartless as to strip the Church of its lands on the very day when we celebrate the birth of our one true King, who ruleth from Heaven. However, if you must insist upon this course of action, the Church cannot hope to force your hand to stop you, only to sway and to chide, to act as your conscience. In that spirit, I would humbly suggest to Your Grace that the silver you wring from our backs be used to improve the lands around the Cirkev Matky Božej „Životodarnej Jari“ in České Budějovice.’

    Róbert nodded sternly to the Metropolitan, then he turned again to the assembled lords and townsfolk.

    ‘Are th—th—there any obj—j—jections to this p—pr—proposal?’

    There was still a dissatisfied mutter around the room, but no one dared to speak up openly against it.

    ‘Then c—consider your r—request g—granted,’ Róbert said to the Metropolitan. ‘The f—funds from these l—lands will be used to improve the Ch—Church of the M—Mother of God of the L—Life-giving S—Spring.’

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    An attendant suddenly came forward, bowed, and beckoned the king to listen. Róbert inclined his ear, and then nodded briskly. He turned back to the assembly in the hall.

    ‘Ch—Christ is born, ladies and g—gentlemen. I will be with you ag—again shortly, but there is another m—matter I must attend to. Ex—s—s—scuse me.’

    He went with the attendant and left the main hall, who were still murmuring their apprehension as he went through the doors and into the corridors of the castle. The attendant led Róbert to a room where a guest was waiting. There he found a slender man with brown hair and stiff, unruly stubble sitting in one of the chairs. Around him were several unframed canvasses, each one bearing an image of a scene from Scripture. Róbert recognised Abraham and Sarah entertaining their three guests; Moses approaching the burning bush in fear; David serenading Saul; Jesus making his triumphant entry into Jerusalem on a donkey, greeted by jubilant crowds waving fronds of palm and spreading their cloaks before him.

    But the style of these paintings was not that of traditional iconography. The hues of the flesh were rich and gleaming, the folds of the fabric sumptuous. Instead of the straight parallel lines used to frame a scene in a traditional icon, these paintings used realistic perspective, such as one might find in paintings and frescoes coming out of Neustria or Burgundy or the cities of northern Italy. Róbert knew and understood that there were some within the Church who decried such innovations in painting as worldly, sinful and even heretical… but Róbert himself couldn’t help but admire the craft and skill that went into making them. He appraised them with an appreciative eye.

    As usual, his stutter faded and his voice became natural in its cadence when he was faced with one person alone. ‘These are beautiful,’ he admired. ‘I l—love the one of Jerusalem in particular. Placing al-Jabal al-Zaytûn in the background is a nice touch… a reminder of Our Lord’s sorrow even in triumph.’

    ‘You’ve been to the Holy Land?’ asked the artist in wonder.
    Róbert turned his head and favoured him with a raised eyebrow.

    ‘I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,’ the artist apologised wryly. ‘Silly question.’

    ‘It was to Antioch, r—rather than Jerusalem, that I went as a pilgrim,’ Róbert mused as he returned his attention lovingly to the paintings. ‘As a leader of soldiers, though—Tripoli, Damascus, Edessa, Nisibis, Mosul, even Jerusalem… I visited them all. Long enough to understand that there are sinners and saints among the Saracens, just as there are among us… I am s—sorry, my good man. Please p—pardon my atrocious manners. May I ask your name?’

    ‘Radim Reiner, Your Majesty,’ the artist bowed. ‘I’m happy that you appreciate my work.’

    ‘It isn’t quite t—traditional,’ Róbert told him, ‘but it’s very true to life. The expressions, the gestures… so human.’

    Radim shook his head modestly. ‘I was just lucky to have studied with a master in Verona – and at that, not even the best of them. It’s a bold new world out there. New ideas, new horizons, new perspectives. I wanted to be a part of them.’

    Róbert smiled. Suddenly he felt a twinge of sadness, looking at these pictures. He and Ilse belonged, truth be told, to the old world – the world of yesterday. The future belonged to his son Vojtech, to his Ruthenian daughter-in-law Predslava, to his grandson Bohodar and to his Belarusian granddaughter-in-law Liusia Óskyldr-Baranovichi. It was they who would live in this bold new world of Radim’s, to do good or ill in it. God willing, they would readily do honour to the Rychnovský name and to the Moravian nation, and not shame them before the blackguards and strutting fools of France, Garderike and Galicia.

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    Still, he answered Radim: ‘If it’s n—not too much to ask, would y—you like to stay here awhile, perhaps do some f—frescoes? The s—stipend I’m willing to offer would be g—generous.’

    Radim’s back straightened noticeably. ‘I would be delighted, Your Grace, to bring honour to my own country with my art.’

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    ‘Splendid!’ Róbert grinned. ‘G—glad to have you with us, Radim, and I look forward to seeing your work.’
     
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    Act I Chapter Two
  • Wow! Let me just say, @generalis Julius Caesar, @Cora Giantkiller, @DensleyBlair and @volksmarschall - having you all on board is an immense honour! I shall try to live up to your expectations.

    TWO.
    The Valiant
    9 May 1453


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    Mamička.’

    Pokoj, pokoj, chlapček môj. It’s late, you need your sleep.’

    ‘… Can you tell me a bedtime story?’

    ‘Mama’s tired, zlatko. Maybe tomorrow.’

    ‘Please?’

    ‘… Well, alright. What bedtime story would you like?’

    ‘Tell me about Kaloján chrabrý.’

    ‘Again? Don’t you get tired of hearing about him?’

    ‘Never! He was the greatest!’

    ‘Well, alright then. A short bedtime story about Kaloján.’

    The wind blew softly outside the little wooden hut in the mountains. The flickering light of a single candle could be seen in the window in the gathering darkness, as the woman began to tell the story to her young son.

    ‘Zelimír and Živana had two sons, and many daughters. The elder son was Radomír. Although he had the strength and courage of a great king, what he lacked was a kind heart. He was wicked, and often beat the servants, and even his sisters feared him. And so Zelimír and Živana tried for a second son. They prayed to God every night for another boy-child, and at last they were given one. After he was born, his mother looked down into his face, and saw that he was a truly sweet and beautiful and gentle child. And so she named him—’

    ‘Kaloján!’

    ‘… Well, zlatko, Živana named him Ján – after the beautiful disciple whom Jesus loved. And this was enough for her. But little Ján grew up strong and healthy and vigorous, even though he was picked on by the other boys, who thought he looked as pretty as a girl. In particular, Vratislav called him “Sissy-Ján” or “Pretty-Ján”. And this insult, Ján turned into a compliment, and he started calling himself “Pretty-Ján”, or “Kalo-Ján” in Greek.’

    ‘Tell me about the ride from Brno to Budějovice!’

    ‘Very well. When he was a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, he went to Brno to be crowned king. But the nobles of the new king were selfish and greedy, and many of them stayed away from the ceremony. When the Knieža of Bohemia raised his flag in rebellion, the boy-king did not even stay to take the crown. But he leapt upon his loyal horse Krvavý Králik, and sprinted with him from Brno all the way to Budějovice. Now, it would take an expert horseman four whole days to make that ride. But Kaloján was no ordinary horseman, and Krvav‎ý Králik was no ordinary horse. When the kingdom came close to ruin, Kaloján made that ride—’

    ‘In two days!’ said the son enthusiastically.

    ‘In two days,’ confirmed his mother. ‘As Kaloján set off to Budějovice on the morning of the second day, a splendid rider clad all in white, riding a white horse, came upon him in full mail, and challenged him to a joust – one on one. Kaloján had no helmet, no mail, no shield. Only a footman’s spear with a crack in the haft. And, of course, he had Krvavý Králik!

    ‘In this deadly combat, Kaloján fought with the white knight for twenty passes. Neither of them could unhorse the other, though both were grazed and bleeding as mid-morning drew nigh. At last, the white knight said to him:

    ‘“A true king thou art, Pretty-Ján! I cannot defeat thee. I yield, and shall let thee pass. But I rede thee: do thou stay here and rest the space of a breath, for my brother-in-arms lieth in wait for thee, and he hath three times my strength, and though it should cost me my head I would liefer die than cause thee to come to harm.”

    ‘But Kaloján said—’

    Here her son interrupted once more, taking on the bold roust of a Kaloján. ‘“Nay, o White Knight! To Budějovice I am bound, for the law of the Czechs and an end to the war. I shall stop for no man!”’

    ‘So he did,’ said his mother indulgently. ‘And when he had taken the White Knight’s oath, he rode onward. By noon he met another rider, this one clad all in gold. Fearsome was his mail, and cruel was his helm, and doughty and tall was his yellow horse. Kaloján had never seen the like! And what do you think he did, this young king?’

    The son answered his mother: ‘What else? Kaloján fought! Though he had no helmet, no mail, no shield; only a footman’s spear with a crack in the haft. But of course he had Krvavý Králik.’

    ‘Yes, only by now Krvavý Králik was beginning to tire, and bellow, and show his wind. But even so, in this deadly combat, Kaloján fought with the gold knight for forty passes. They raised a clashing and a din so loud that the crows took to flight, and three villages away they thought there was a storm brewing. But neither man could unhorse the other, though both were grazed and bleeding as the afternoon wore on. At last, the gold knight said to him:

    ‘“I misjudged thee, Pretty-Ján! I bethought me thou wast just another courtling in skirts with a glib tongue. But I cannot defeat thee! I yield, and shall let thee pass. But I rede thee: do thou stay here and rest the space of a breath, for my brother-in-arms lieth in wait for thee, and he hath thrice three times my strength, and though it should cost me my head, I would liefer be slain than cause thee grief.”

    ‘But Kaloján said—’

    ‘“Nay, o Golden Knight!”’ said the son with gusto. ‘“To Budějovice I am bound, for the law of the Czechs and the end of the war, and I shall stop for no man!”’

    ‘And that was truth,’ said his mother. ‘And so on he rode. And the sun sank low in the sky before him. As he was almost to Budějovice, he bethought him he saw a shadow among the trees. Soon he saw it was no shadow, but the form of a man on horseback. But what a brute he was! Black was his helmet, black was his mail, black was his shield and lance. Black was his horse, and eighteen hands high! Kaloján had never seen the like in all his life. Not one word did the black knight give to challenge him, but rode straight at him like a crow in flight. But what do you think the young king did?’

    ‘Why, of course he fought!’

    ‘Fight he did. Harder than he had fought any fight in his life. Though he had no helmet, no mail, no shield, and only a footman’s spear with a crack in the haft. But he had Krvavý Králik! By now, though, his horse was sweating a froth, and bellowing at the sides, winded and tired and near to falling over. Even so, Kaloján fought with the Black Knight for sixty passes that evening. Eagles took flight in alarm. The earth shook and trembled. Ten villages away they heard the crashing and the clangour and thought that doomsday was at hand. The two of them fought until both were wounded and bleeding and panting, until at last the Black Knight flung down his lance.

    ‘“O TRUE KING PRETTY-JÁN,” he rumbled, “TODAY THOU HAST BESTED MY YOUNGEST BROTHER, GARBED IN WHITE. THOU HAST BESTED MY MIDDLE BROTHER, GARBED IN GOLD. AND NOW THOU HAST BESTED ME. I SWEAR MY SOLEMN OATH TO YOU, TO FIGHT FOR YOU AND NO OTHER TILL THE DAY I DIE. I KNOW THOU ART BOUND FOR BUDĔJOVICE BY SUNDOWN, AND I SHALL NOT TRY TO STOP THEE. ONLY LET ME TEND TO THY HORSE, RUB IT DOWN AND WATER IT, THAT IT MAY BEAR THEE SAFELY THE REST OF THE WAY.”’

    (Her son giggled at her attempt to mimic the rumbling voice of the Black Knight, and she laughed along with him.)

    ‘And Kaloján saw indeed that his horse was tired, for it had done feats of speed and bravery that no horse had ever done before. And so he handed Krvavý Králik over to the Black Knight, who was good to his word, and returned the horse to Kaloján with a second wind in his belly.’

    ‘And Kaloján rode to the castle, and seized it in a day, and flung the traitorous castellan down from the battlements!’ exclaimed her son.

    ‘So he did,’ said his mother. ‘But that is another tale.’

    ‘… Is Kaloján still alive, mamička?’

    ‘Some say he died,’ his mother answered. ‘Others say that when he was old, he climbed up to Mount Gerlach in the Tatry, and entered a cave there. He placed his sword across his knees, and as he did so, his body turned all to gneiss, and became one with the mountain. And there he rests, until the day when the Moravian realm needs him most – and the old storyteller who taught me said that when the black capercailzie takes wing, and flies over the peak of Mount Gerlach, that is the sign that Kaloján chrabrý is about to descend, for the Orthodox faith and for Moravia’s salvation.’

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    Act I Chapter Three
  • THREE.
    Nordgau and Luleå
    9 May 1453

    On the same night as a certain woman in a Slovak village in Trencin was entertaining her young son with bedtime stories about the valiant King Kaloján, two embassies arrived at the courtyard of the castle in Olomouc. One of them, a blond man with blue eyes and a square jaw, calmly regarded the other, who had a weatherbeaten face with dark eyes and a dark beard. Their dress was as different as their features. The blond man wore a green tunic, hose and cap which was common among the Austrian and Bavarian Bürger. The darker-browed man had on him leather boots, and a deep blue overshirt, embroidered with points of vibrant red and yellow and green. The darker man gave a smile and a nod to his fellow, who curtly nodded back as they strode inside.

    They were both conducted to Róbert Rychnovský’s audience hall, and instructed to take off their caps and kneel before the Kráľ of the Moravian Lands. They did as they were bidden, and when the king came out, his chancellor introduced them.

    ‘Lord King: I present to you Friedrich Erlbach of Bavaria, and Uvllá Jokssi of Julevädno.’

    ‘P—pleasure to meet you, g—gentlemen,’ the king spoke. ‘Friedrich. You may rise first. S—speak your business.’

    Friedrich stood, cap in hand, and spoke plainly.

    ‘In God’s name I greet you, o Lord King of Moravia,’ spoke the German, ‘and offer you the firm friendship and goodwill of your Bavarian neighbours to the south. We are always grateful for the opportunity to speak with our Slavic cousins, to whom we owe a great debt of gratitude for guiding us to the true Faith and away from the vile clutches of heresy…’

    Róbert was a little bit annoyed by this punctilious prepared greeting, even though it was at all points correct and courtly. ‘Good man, the hour is l—late. Please, g—get to the point.’

    Friedrich shrugged coolly. ‘Suffice it to say, then, that the issue of Nordgau’s overlordship has again surfaced. Though our realms are alike in dignity – Bayern being larger in fact than the March – those of us who swore loyalty to von Tann are still subject on fairly harsh terms to the Waßerburg-Rothenburg estate. Good Bavarians – your kindred in Christ and brothers in the Orthodox Faith – are suffering under a double corvée, a double levy, double tax dues. Surely you can see the injustice in this?’

    ‘Th—that I can,’ Róbert replied. ‘But wh—what is it that you wish me to do? Surely this is a matter for the von Tanns’ court?’

    ‘In ordinary times, lord King, it would be,’ Friedrich replied. ‘But these are not ordinary times. The von Tann inheritance is disputed, and the Waßerburg-Rothenburgs are taking full advantage. Soon there will be an uprising against the lords of the Bohemian March, of that I am in little doubt. I only wish to be assured of your Majesty’s support, should such an event happen.’

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    Róbert Rychnovský shook his head. ‘I am sorry; I’m af—fraid I cannot assist you there. If it c—comes to an arbitration of duties, I will g—gladly stand your advocate at law, as is fair. But to a—ask me to support an uprising is a s—step too far. I’m sure that you can understand the pr—precedent such a stance would create?’

    Friedrich bowed curtly. ‘I understand, your Majesty. But I confess I am somewhat disappointed. I had not expected such timidity from a man of your reputation.’

    Róbert thumped the butt of Pazúr on the floor beneath his seat, and a frown crossed his brow at the Bavarian messenger’s insolence. ‘Th—that will do, sir. You have your answer. You are dismissed.’

    Friedrich gave another bow, turned on his heel, and left. Róbert turned to Uvllá, who had a rather glum and resigned expression on his face, as if he expected his own petition to meet with a similarly curt dismissal.

    ‘And what is your b—business, good man?’ asked the king, a bit grumpily.

    The Sámi messenger bowed deeply before the king, his cap still in his hand, and began. ‘I come with an offer, your Majesty. I know your time is valuable, so I will be brief. The headman of our siida, Athanasios Orvarsson Gautske-Halmstad, wishes to marry his son Haukr to your granddaughter Dušana of the Golden Braids.’

    Róbert raised his brows.

    ~~~​

    Here, the reader must understand a rather awkward piece of Moravian history.

    In the year 1269, a certain woman named Salōmē Lampsiōtēs died of a heart attack in her tent on the shores of Lake Tuoppajärvi.

    Her premature death, though of course regrettable, would not have caused such a massive headache for multiple generations of Moravian kings, had it not been for the fact that Lady Salōmē, despite her considerable physical attractiveness and marriage to a prominent reindeer-herder and siida headman named Èoavvá, had had the most distressing lack of foresight and consideration to have gone and had a heart attack while the two of them were still childless. And her nearest living male relation – her second cousin Ruslav Lampsiōtēs – also happened to be hrabě of Litoměřice in northern Bohemia.

    And so, the Bohemian-Greek Ruslav Lampsiōtēs wound up in the rather awkward position of having possession of a sizeable reindeer herd on the shores of Lake Tuoppajärvi, as well as a significant collection of Sámi second cousins and in-laws who treated him as their new headman. And the Rychnovský family – in particular the Rychnovský-Žič cadet branch – found themselves overnight the most sought-after eligible bachelors among mothers and daughters in Sámi encampments. (This is how one finds Rychnovskýs with names like Gáktu, Ásllat and Juoksáhkká.)

    Two hundred years later, the Rychnovský kings were still trying to find ways to convince their Bohemian vassals to divest themselves from a poorly-defended territory all the way on the other side of Garderike. But instead of that happening, all of a sudden in 1453, the combined legal authorities of Sápmi, Garderike and Bjarmaland had all somehow conspired to recognise the kings of Moravia as the sovereigns over not just Lake Tuoppajärvi and its environs, but over the entirety of Vienan Karjala.

    As an interesting side note of linguistic history, 1453 is also the year that the loanword ‘перкеле’ first appears in Middle Moravian source texts.

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    ~~~​

    Róbert, of course, was painfully aware of all this history. He rather had to be. And he was also unduly aware of the significant strategic locations of Athanasios Orvarsson’s holdings and fisheries in Julevädno, which lay at Luleå on the far northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia. A port, in point of fact, which was not nearly so awkward for Moravia’s paltry fleet of fishing ships and such as the current Bohemian-controlled port at Kuzema. Róbert was thinking that if he could at least get basing rights at Luleå, he wouldn’t have to pay upkeep and tolls, and risk depredations by the East Geats every time he wanted bring his soldiers into a friendly port.

    And so, stunning Uvllá, his chancellor, and indeed himself, Róbert Rychnovský replied to him:

    ‘An e—excellent idea. H—how old is H—Haukr now?’

    ‘He is not yet ten years, your Grace,’ Uvllá managed, after collecting his composure again.

    ‘Then stay, will you, and let us m—make the arrangements for when he t—turns sixteen,’ the King of Moravia told Uvllá. ‘He m—may come here himself, and w—welcome, to claim Dušana of the Golden Braids for his bride.’

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    The Sámi messenger, who had not expected such a precipitous and indeed gracious favourable reply to the offer from his headman, bowed gratefully and with deep respect. And indeed he did stay on several days after, to hammer out the betrothal agreement between Haukr and Dušana.

    It was not long at all, however, before Bayern went ahead anyway with its rebellion, and declared war on the lords of Nordgau with their legitimate grievances. The King of Moravia had officially denounced the rebels, but his denunciation was purely formal; he did send support to the rebels under the table with war subsidies, and even pressed a land-rights claim against Nordgau not five months later as a form of indirect support. That had been the most he felt he could rightly do there.

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    Interlude One
  • Interlude I.
    University of Saint Michael the Archangel, Olomouc
    Present day


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    Živana turned around as she felt a tap on her shoulder. She saw there facing her Cecilia Bedyrová, her round face flushed with excitement. She was a touch out of breath, as though she had come up behind Živana at a run.

    ‘You signed up for Dr Weissfeld’s class too?’ she asked.

    ‘Of course,’ Živana grinned. ‘When that many upperclassmen recommend it, you really can’t turn it down, can you?’

    ‘Do you believe the rumours?’ asked Cecilia in a whisper.

    ‘What, that he’s tough? Sure. I don’t remember anyone getting above a 2.0 in his class. And some of the senior boys say he flunked them with a 5.0.’

    ‘Not those rumours, dummy,’ Cecilia gave her friend a clout and lowered her voice yet further. ‘I mean the… other rumours. Where do you think a professor like that got a black 603? The only people who drive those are ŠtB agents!’

    True enough, Živana had seen Dr Weissfeld’s car. Despite being black, it did rather stand out. It was obvious how much love the professor lavished on the sleek, chrome-plated, immaculately-kept classic 60s jalopy that was parked outside the history building at Saint Michael’s. And it was true that the Tatra 603 had long been a favourite among secret police and other high government officials. But Živana wasn’t sure she entirely bought the rumours about Weissfeld having been a secret policeman.

    The two of them entered the seminar room together and took their seats, slinging their bookbags over the backs of their chairs. There were already thirteen other students in the class, and from their appearance it seemed they were anticipating their professor as much as Cecilia had been. There was a plate of palacinky on the table by the door, that looked fresh and smelled delicious – but no one had taken any yet, it seemed.

    It wasn’t long before the man himself arrived. In a word: frumpy could be the word used to describe Professor Weissfeld. His frizzy hair, grizzled black and grey, was matched by a pair of thick, bushy brows and a rough goatee of the same hue. He wore a long jacket of an indeterminate colour and pants and a button-down to match, round spectacles that sat low on his bulbous and slightly-aquiline nose, and he carried a black leather briefcase which he set down on his desk. He then looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, took a long thin metal pen—or what looked like one—and began running it on its edge along the top and sides of the windows, then pointed it around the room.

    One boy raised his hand nervously. ‘What are you checking for?’

    ‘Nothing,’ Dr Weissfeld grumbled. ‘Nothing to concern you, anyway. Just… some people have long memories; can never be too careful. At any rate, welcome… to History 625.’

    The Consolidation of the Moravian State
    1468 – 1751

    Such were the words that were already written on the whiteboard.

    ‘I am, of course, your professor, Viktor Doubnich Weissfeld. You can call me Viki. And, fair warning: any jokes at my expense about either Wikipedia or Rakuten will result in an immediate 5.0.’

    There was an exchange of glances through the room and a couple of nervous, stifled titters.

    ‘That was a joke,’ he clarified. ‘You are permitted to laugh in this class. Occasionally.’ He turned his head a thought away from the whiteboard as he continued to write on it. ‘If I’m in a good mood. As you can see—the theme of this class is the foundation of the modern nation-state of Moravia, prior to the revolutions of the 1750s. Quick show of hands: how many of you have taken Ed’s Medieval class?’

    Živana and Cecilia raised their hands. So did Ľubomir, reluctantly, and Ladoslav. So did a couple of other upperclassmen seated around the room.

    ‘Mphm,’ Viktor harrumphed. ‘Well. And what was the theme of his class? Yes—you with the red hair.’

    Živana lowered her hand. ‘It was largely about the two Moravias: one in Olomouc which faced east but expanded west, and one in Velehrad which faced westward. A big chunk of it was about the power struggle between the Rychnovský family and the Mojmírovci, which lasted until about the 1380s.’

    ‘Ah, Ed,’ Viktor chuckled. ‘Still teaching your “Great Men” and that doddering long-mouthed old Icelandic reactionary Carlyle, are you? Well, at least one of your students was paying attention. Hm, true. Up until Radomír the Fourth’s… insistent invitation to Duchess Ctislava Mikulčíková to take an early retirement to a garden-level studio apartment in Olomouc Castle in 1381, the Middle Ages were about military families and patronage and personalities, and the Rychnovských and the Mojmírovci were the two big names… though you also had the occasional Přemyslov, Bijelahrvatskić, Balgarsko or Koceľak nudging their way in. And oh, ho, those court intrigues could get downright nasty. Do you know there was a rumour that Bohodar the Second was behind a successful plot to poison his own grandson with sugared apricots? As a result, it’s still a custom among the old families in Dresden only to offer plain, fresh fruit to guests – no jam, no candied fruit – and let them sample the house’s sugar themselves before they, ah, dose it. Um… palacinky, anyone? Made them myself this morning. Feel free to just, you know, come up and grab one anytime…’

    Several of the students exchanged grins as Weissfeld himself took one of the thin rolled-up crepes, bit into it, and passed the plate around invitingly. This was the reason that students took Professor Weissfeld’s class despite no one ever getting a 1.0. His knowledge of historical trivia – particularly when it came to the strange, macabre and unexplained – was unrivalled among the Saint Michael’s faculty.

    ‘Anyway, personalities – still important in this era – I defy anyone to examine in depth the cutthroat, centuries-long, blood-soaked feud between the Rychnovský main branch and the Rychnovský-Nisa cadets and then claim otherwise. But they do begin to take a back seat. Why?’

    A hand shot up. Weissfeld raised one bushy eyebrow.

    ‘Now let’s not start with the whole teacher’s-pet routine,’ he grumped. ‘I hate it. But—yes? Frilly dress.’

    Petra Simkovičová put her hand down, taken a bit aback by the professor’s brusqueness and speaking a bit tepidly as a result. ‘This is when we start to see the beginnings of a shift in material relations. Personal connexions to land, personal fealties to lord become less important than the cash exchange, the written contract, the charter. You start seeing the rise of the bourgeoisie as a class, to replace the landed aristocracy.’

    Weissfeld was nonplussed. ‘Right, right. That’s the Theory. Good little komsomolka. But since my Party card likely outdates your conception by a good decade or so, let’s assume that we’re both in good standing and try to keep the slogans down to one per class. Deal?’

    Petra didn’t know whether to be chastened or amused, but a slight softening at the corners of Weissfeld’s eyes gave her the courage to turn up the corners of her lips. Weissfeld went on.

    ‘But—yes. Olomouc started becoming more and more important as a political centre. Cities like Prague and Bratislava rose in prominence. Nobility clustered. Bureaucracy entrenched. Moravian traders got rich and powerful in Pest and Wien. Ambitious clerics reformed the Orthodox Church. Marriages between Rychnovský men and Khovansky, Oskyldr-Baranovič and Enikeev women were replaced by formal treaties with Ruthenia… and, later, Ryazan. All driven by economic shifts, formalisation of property rights, rise of the bourgeoisie and so on. This being a history class, the economics are important and we will discuss them here.’

    Weissfeld moved around the corner of his desk and opened his briefcase. The students in the class who were nearest him leaned forward to try and sneak a peek inside.

    ‘Ah, ah! No! Noses out!’ Weissfeld scolded them. ‘I swear, it’s like dealing with three-year-olds when you’re opening the cookie jar…’

    Then, Weissfeld removed an object, which – some students were a little crestfallen to observe – was quite small and fit neatly into the palm of his hand.

    ‘Now, when we speak of Róbert Rychnovský—AJP Taylor was an excellent historian, but I refuse to use his cutesy little “Robin” nickname—what is the one iconic thing which appears in all of his portraits?’

    ‘His war-hammer Pazúr,’ Dalibor offered.

    Viktor chuckled. ‘Ha ha… you would think so. Yes, his hammer is certainly iconic. Named weapons usually are. But it doesn’t accompany him in all of his portraits! Out-of-place in domestic scenes. No… I’m talking about this.’

    Viktor held up what he had in his hand for the class to see. It glinted in the light. Again the students leaned forward and the professor simply smiled complacently at their surprise and delight. The bauble, small but compact and solid, was silver and slightly tarnished. The students could see that it was a cross-bottony pendant in the Byzantine style, but it was inlaid with ornate geometric patterns – overlapping eight-point stars, interweaving palm-fronds, crescent and sword motifs – that might easily have belonged on a piece of Islâmic art.

    ‘The original,’ Viktor clarified. ‘Actually, one of two originals: the other he gave to his wife, Ilse Vasa. These were given to him by the Patriarch of Antioch when he visited the ruins of the Dome Church. Róbert Rychnovský loved Syria. Made four voyages there in his life: two as a pilgrim in peacetime, and two as an ally of Orthodox states at war. Came back to Europe and wrote an impassioned plea – remarkable for its time – for Europeans to respect Arabic and Greek Christians as equals and to embrace religious tolerance and pluralism. Kept this silver pendant around his neck always. There, you can—pass that around. Just, be careful with it, clean your hands and… keep the palacinky away from it, please. Now, why do you think I am showing you this?’

    ‘To show us you have connexions with the history museum?’ asked one student in the back.

    Viktor gave another chuckle. ‘Oh, you have no idea. But no. Yes – blonde, blue blouse?’

    Cecilia had raised her hand again. ‘To show us how global-minded Róbert was?’

    ‘Mm,’ Viktor stroked his goatee. ‘Global-minded. Explain.’

    Cecilia cleared her throat. ‘Róbert had a strong interest in other cultures, peaceful exchange, an orientation toward new ideas and art styles.’

    ‘Hm,’ Viktor gave something which might have been the beginning of a smile. ‘But so did Bohodar slovoľubec. So did Bohodar 3. So did Radomír 4. What set Róbert apart from these ancestors of his? Here’s a hint,’ he told her as the pendant came to her. ‘Look at the obverse.’

    Cecilia considered. ‘Is that… a guild-mark?’

    ‘Venetian,’ Viktor clarified. ‘Gastaldi da puovolo. Bankers’ and silversmiths’ guild. Already active in the thirteenth century and skyrocketing by the fifteenth. Power nearly rivalled the Doge’s.’

    ‘It’s recycled silver,’ Cecilia marvelled. ‘From the growing trade across the Middle Sea. And it ended up in the hands of the Antiochian Church, was recommissioned as a pendant and given to the King of Moravia as a keepsake.’

    Viktor took the pendant back and held up the front gravely. ‘A symbol of Róbert’s faith, on one hand.’ He turned it over. ‘A testament to the growing power of trade and hard cash, on the other. A two-sided artefact of a very two-sided age. That—is the major theme of this class.’

    It turned out that, despite his gruff manner, Weissfeld did take the trouble to learn all of their names. The palacinky were delicious. And the class was engaging, with Viktor dropping in all manner of historical apocrypha. By the end of the first class, if any of the students had any doubts about signing up for his class, Weissfeld had put them all to rest.
     
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    Act I Chapter Four
  • FOUR.
    Detvansk‎ý and Khovanský
    17 September 1454 – 10 September 1458


    I.
    17 September 1454 - 28 February 1455

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    ‘I hate it when you do this. I always have.’

    Róbert Rychnovský clasped his wife’s hands between his and squeezed them tenderly. But he would not be dissuaded from his purpose. His trusty Pazúr was already strapped to his back, his armour was on, his helmet and greaves and spurs as well. Zúl-Džanáh was awaiting him in the courtyard – his sabino coat glistening chestnut and white in the early-autumn sunlight, saddle and reins and stirrup already prepared for his trusted rider.

    ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But I must.’

    ‘I know that,’ the Swede smiled sadly. ‘Only tell me that you’ll come back this time too.’

    Róbert raised his elderly wife’s hands to his face and kissed each one in turn. ‘I will.’

    He turned again to where his horse and his men were awaiting him. Out of habit, Ilse adjusted her husband’s mantle and belts. And then he strode forward, easily mounting his beloved Arabic stallion with the ease and grace of long practice. He lifted his arm with Pazúr in hand, and in response to his sign the cornets behind him sounded with a loud salute. He turned Zúl-Džanáh to face his men – the cavalry company beside him were smartly outfitted and ready to ride. And ride they did: toward the south. Toward the Pannonian Basin. Toward the Carpathian Empire.

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    ~~~​

    The Empire of Carpathia – yclept Kárpátok Birodalma in official documents – had been forged only sixty years before, within his father Vojtech 3.’s lifetime, out of the various Moldavian, Vlach, Bulgarian and Hungarian realms that had lain between Moravia and the Eastern Empire to the south. With the Byzantines and the Moravians having uneasily eyed each other across that anarchic swathe of southeastern Europe, the field was left clear for one man to sweep through on horseback and conquer the whole lot. That man had been a Bulgarian, Marko Sărcerazbivačnik: Marko ‘the Heartbreaker’. Whether he had gotten that byname from the number of women he’d straddled on the bed, or the number of men whose hearts he had gleefully cut from their bodies on the battlefield and on the rack, Róbert never quite managed to learn.

    Though Bulgarian by culture, his direct paternal heritage was of the Magyar ruling dynasty of Árpád – and in particular the cadet house Detvanský which had ruled the fragmentary principality of Bihar. And although he had ruled that whole swathe of the Balkans with a fist of iron, upon his death his many grandchildren at once began fighting amongst themselves over control of the Empire he had forged. In his entire rule, the King of Moravia had never once known the Carpathian realm to have been at peace with itself. Having gone through five kings in fifteen years – one slain in battle, one mortally wounded in battle, and two forced to abdicate by factional strife – it seemed Carpathia had found peace at last these eight years.

    That peace was short-lived, though this time the threat to it came from outside rather than inside. A long-standing bone of contention between the current dynast of Carpathia Svetoslav Detvanský and the Grand Princess of the Rus’ Rostislava Khovanskaya, was the control over the left bank of the Ingul River. The Rus’ already controlled the right bank, but the left bank had strategic importance as a potential base for ships out to the Black Sea. The tensions between the Carpathian Empire and the Rus’ Principality had been building for the past three years, and they had finally come to a head. By virtue of the marriage of Róbert’s and Ilse’s second son Siloš to Rostislava’s younger sister Ľudmila, the King of the Moravians was obliged to heed the call of the war-horns once again. Although he was old now and could justifiably stay home, Bertík simply couldn’t put up his heels while ordering his men from behind the walls of a castle! He and Zúl-Džanáh belonged alongside them, in the thick of battle, where his presence and his reputation could serve them best.

    The army set out well-supplied and in high spirits. All across the western part of the country, peasants and their lords had reported bumper crops of oats, pease, beans, barley, beets, turnips, hops, rapeseed, wine grapes, apples and plums over the past growing season. With that surplus, cattle and swine, sheep and poultry had grown fat and numerous. The army was well awash not only in bread and ale, but choice meats and cheeses and wines. Róbert could not remember the last time he had dined as well as he did on campaign, and he was certain that his captains and soldiers felt the same.

    Róbert led his men first down to Neusiedl and occupied it (an occupation sadly short-lived, as the Carpathian army retook it the following February), but then turned back north into his own territory and marched eastward along the Slovak low country from the Danubian lowlands to the eastern flats, before moving again into the lands of the Podkarpatská Rus.

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    The company from Olomouc camped on the shallow slope of a mountain, in the polonina: a high meadow normally covered with various grasses and heathers, often used by the locals as pastureland for their sheep – mostly of the soft-woolen cigáj variety. Though now, in the dead of winter, the chilly polonina was covered in a thick blanket of white snow. The local herdsmen were surprised and not entirely happy to see the King and his company taking up residence on their land. They moved to protect their flocks in their winter byres from the depredations of the soldiers, although Róbert kept a tight rein and would not permit plunder. Those who tried it were flogged severely before making restitution to the wronged locals.

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    It was several days later, on the twenty-third of January, that Róbert’s company had its first action of the Ruthenian war over Nikolaev. A leaderless contingent of two thousand foot soldiers wandered over the border onto the Moravian side of Maramoroš. The Moravian army quickly decamped and descended from the polonina into a small riparian valley, and caught the Carpathian troops just as they had finished fording.

    The battle was quick and decisive. Although the mixed Hungarian-Bulgarian forces fought bravely to start with, they quickly realised that their numbers were inferior, their position was untenable and that they were surrounded. The unit commanders quickly surrendered without condition, and yielded themselves to imprisonment.

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    ‘Well-fought!’ the Ruthenian envoy from Knyaginya Rostislava congratulated Róbert afterward.

    ‘It was n—nothing,’ Róbert said modestly. ‘The real action is y—yet to come.’

    ‘And yet,’ said the envoy, ‘you continue to aid us even though you stand little to gain from our fight. Orthodox Slavic brothers in Christ, nearer than blood—so have the Moravian people always been to the Rus’. And I hope that you understand we are grateful and in your debt.’

    Róbert smiled beneath his once-red beard. He wasn’t nearly as susceptible to such fine and insinuating words from the Lady of Ruthenia as his Rus’-loving great-grandfather Radomír 4. had been, but he wasn’t about to turn down such a compliment either. ‘You honour us. Yet y—you will find the word of Moravia to be silver to you. We shall not b—back down from what we promise.’

    ‘You have our Knyaginya’s gratitude,’ the envoy insisted. ‘And she will do all in her power to further your good name among both your friends and your enemies in the future.’

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    ‘One might suspect,’ said Viktór, one of the unit commanders who had been present for the interview, after the envoy had left, ‘that the good Lady of the Rus’ rather suspects the opposite of us, and thinks us likely to renege.’

    ‘Tsk,’ Róbert answered. ‘L—let her think wh—what she likes. I know well enough that b—blood is thicker than water, and she would d—do the same if our land were in danger. The important thing for us is to k—keep to our word.’

    However, the ill news came from the north that Lake Tuoppajärvi had been seized by the Swedes, and the Rychnovský-Žič headman of the Sápmi in the north had been forced to surrender himself. That was a blow indeed – and insult was added to injury when the embassy of Jovvkuj spoke of the cowardice of the Rychnovský men at a public siida. A response from the south would certainly be due, but given Róbert’s current campaign, that would have to wait.

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    Act I Chapter Five
  • FIVE
    From Keminmaa to Kem’
    27 January 1460 – 1 January 1464


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    Ilse rushed as fast as her elderly body would allow her, down the path from the castle to the town when she heard that her husband was returning. Indeed, there was his curly greying red beard now! He was leading Zúl-Džanáh up toward the castle, and he was alone. The white-haired old woman ran straight to him and put her arms firmly around her husband. Róbert had come back to her indeed, safe and sound. He needed no words to comfort her, nor she to show him her appreciation. They held each other firmly there in the middle of the road for several minutes before passing in through the gate.

    Knyaginya Rostislava of the Rus’ had taken the left bank of the Ingul from Carpathia, consolidating her hold over the Euxine coast and the trade routes out to the Eastern Roman Empire. The humiliated Birodalma had been forced, as well, to pay out a large sum of gold to Rus’ as reparations for the war. There were now rumours that Általános Svetoslav was thinking of putting a tax increase upon the bowers of the Pannonian Basin to pay the loss.

    Ilse slipped her arm into her the crook of her husband’s shoulder, and accompanied him step for step the rest of the way back up to the castle. Róbert gave his wife a run-down of how the end of the war had gone for them all. In particular he told her how proud he was of young Bohodar, and what a fine commander and king he would make one day. Ilse said nothing back, yet. She was enjoying the sound of her husband’s voice, returned to her at last. She had always found Róbert’s stammer an endearing quirk, though she knew he was comfortable enough around her that he didn’t stutter as much in her presence.

    ‘Ilse darling,’ Róbert asked her suddenly, ‘after the demobilisation, many of my men took the road to Jílové u Prahy, not even g—going back to their families first. Are the prospects there truly as good as I’m hearing about?’

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    ‘Better,’ Ilse grinned. ‘I’d not have believed it myself, if the šafár hadn’t shown me a nugget the size of a shield-boss, and as yellow as my hair when I was young. Many young men are leaving their trades, their shops and their homesteads for Jílové these days, looking for easy gold. A lot of that will be flowing toward Olomouc anyway.’

    ‘Hm. I should m—meet with Ján Kováč and see if we can’t make the standards for weights and specie a bit more rigorous. If we have that much b—bullion floating around it shouldn’t be a problem.’

    ‘Ahh, my ever-righteous Bertík,’ Ilse pinched her husband’s bearded cheek fondly. ‘The first thing he thinks of when he hears of a gold rush is to stabilise the currency. First come duty and honour and realm.’

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    Róbert caught Ilse’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘That’s why you love me.’

    ‘That’s why I love you.’

    ~~~

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    ‘The army has been exhausted by this war,’ Jaromír Rychnovský-Nisa of Slieszko was explaining to the Stavovské Zhromaždenie. ‘We need fresh recruits, and we need to expand our capacities in the production of arms and munitions. If a third-rate rural power like Carpathia could wear us down as much as they have, think about what a more prosperous power like Gardarike could do!’

    ‘If we put our trust in princes and sons of men there will be no hope for us—still less if we put our trust in steel and powder,’ grumped Bishop Bedřich of Pardubice. ‘Putting our faith in God is a surer way forward for the Moravian realm; and the churches in the north lands could surely use some renovation.’

    ‘And how are we going to fund these projects?’ asked Ján Kováč with a thin smile. ‘Building up the army and renovating churches cost money which we currently don’t have. Investing in the Brno guilds will, in time, grant returns to the state which can then be used to bundle provisions or patch up leaky cupolas.’

    Róbert held up a hand for silence, massaged his temples, and heaved a sigh before he spoke.

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    ‘G—gentlemen! Your—your input is all h—h—highly valued. H—however, it is my d—decision in the end, and I ch—choose to inv—invest the money in the—in the guilds of Brno. I—Is the envoy from Julevädno d—downstairs yet?’

    ‘He is downstairs, milord. He was finishing breakfast twenty minutes ago and should be joining us shortly.’

    ‘T—tell him to meet me in the audience ch—chamber.’

    Kráľ Róbert left the council to join the Julevädno envoy in the audience chamber. When he arrived there he saw the familiar, weather-beaten dark-bearded face of Uvllá, who smiled in recognition of the king. Róbert greeted him happily with a handshake, which was firmly and gladly returned.

    ‘Uvllá, it has b—been too long!’

    ‘I could not agree more, your Majesty.’

    ‘How is H—Haukr?’ he asked.

    ‘He and Dušana are settled in happily, from what I understand,’ Uvllá shrugged. ‘Dušana is not yet used to our long, cold, dark winters, but Haukr does what he can to keep her happy.’

    ‘I take it from your b—being here, you are agreeable to our p—proposal?’

    Uvllá bowed. ‘Your Majesty is most perceptive. Although the marriage was between a Gautske-Holmstad and a Rychnovský, the current Svinhufvud siida from the town of Keminmaa, Margareta, is more than eager to renew the ties between Julevädno and Moravia… and to solemnise them with a treaty of friendship and mutual defence.’

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    ‘Excellent!’ Róbert clasped Uvllá by the shoulders. Already he could smell the freshly-planed pine planks, the tar and the clean bright sheets of canvas for a northern Moravian fleet based in Luleå! ‘Let me know what terms Margareta has for us, and I will be happy to meet them, should they be reasonable.’

    ‘I am sure your Lordship will find them to be so.’

    ~~~​

    The following two years were eventful ones.

    The gold rush in Jílové u Prahy could scarcely have been better-timed. The northern Italian banking families, particularly the ones which operated in the Alpine heights of Tirol, had begun taking note of an alarming drain on the continental supply of bullion, which was more and more flowing out of Constantinople on routes east. Practically overnight, the Moravian gold denár and obol, Brno-minted and largely from Jílové stock, found themselves to be hot commodities among bankers from Amsterdam to Florence. Thankfully, after Róbert’s policies of investment, Brno’s household businesses and marketplaces turned out to be robust and more than competent to cover the southern demand for gold coin!

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    The costly and humiliating loss of the Ingul to Rus’ had an unfortunate effect. Moravia could not afford Schadenfreude at the misfortunes of their one-time enemy. Within Carpathia itself, the peasantry—whether Bulgarian, Magyar, Vlach or Slovak—had begun to see that the deaths their families had sustained, the war taxes they had been forced to endure, the conscriptions and appropriations by armies on both sides, and now the humiliating reparations they had to pay to Rus’ through their own crops, were amounting to an intolerable burden. They were beginning to do more than just grumble. They began to take up arms. Scattered revolts of stressed and discontented bowers broke out all across the Pannonian Basin.

    And Moravia found that a close watch had to be maintained on their long, low, poorly-guarded (and impossible to guard) southern border. Peasant armies from Carpathia would occasionally cross over from the Magyar or Vlach lands into the Slovak lowlands. And they would be remembering keenly that Moravia had played no small part in their current plight, and would not be too picky about where they burnt and raided.

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    On the other hand, Margareta Svinhufvud was carefully scrutinising her Moravian ally, and observing the administration of what was then called ‘Moravian Laponia’ (which by now consisted of an area ranging from Lake Tuoppajärvi, through Vienan Karjala, to the eastern port town of Kem’). Once it had been well established to her from her contact with the Sámi living to the east of her that Róbert Rychnovský was warm-hearted, magnanimous and a man of his word, she was all too happy to swear fealty to Moravia and accept Moravian suzerainty over Julevädno. The severnípolitika of Róbert Rychnovský was quickly bearing fruit. A swathe of Moravian control running from Keminmaa to Kem’ was materialising, and a Moravian fleet in the Baltic looked to be more and more of a possibility within reach.

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    And then Tirol began a religious war against the Croatians living to their south—who still followed the Adamite heresy, engaging in ritual nudity and coupling without regard for social class or proscriptions against incest. In the name of religious uniformity and of stamping out the vile distortions of Christ’s teachings once and for all, Tirol attacked southward into Carniola. This did not impact Moravia much, although Tirol’s Burgundian allies did put in a formal request to allow their armies to cross Moravian marches to attack Croatia.

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    And then came the blackest day of all for Róbert Rychnovský. His beloved wife and steadfast and firm support throughout his reign, Ilse Totilsdotter Vasa, passed from the earthly life at the age of 73. The grief and despondency into which Róbert sank after this event caused many in the Zhromaždenie to lose confidence in the spiritual fitness and sound sense of their elderly ruler… particularly after he decided to break off the military alliance with Lusatia and pursue one instead with the historically-significant but strategically-unimportant independent principality of Věluň.

    Moravia was in for a rough transition… and a bloody war that would pit Rychnovský against Rychnovský.

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    Act I Chapter Six
  • SIX
    The May Day War
    18 August 1464 – 19 February 1469



    I.​

    The Rus’ Principalities had a long and fractious history, to say the least. Róbert Rychnovský was more aware of this than most, given the close connexions his family had with three of those principalities.

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    The country that now called itself Rus’ had grown out of the Principality of Turov in the 1200s. Turov, which had grown in prestige as a centre of monastic piety and learning as a result of Saint Kirill’s tireless ascetic and missionary labours in that town, quickly also became the political centre of gravity for the Rus’ after the decline of Kiev. There was a brief period of unity between the White Rus’ to the north, the Little Rus’ to the south, and the Great Rus’ to the east, which had been achieved under the Oskyldr family (descendants of the Varangian Askold) in Turov. The White Rus’ had remained under the control of the Oskyldr clan. The rest of the Rus’ to the east had come under the control of the Balgarsko dynasty, of which the Khovanský rulers were a cadet branch.

    Galicia-Volhynia had grown out of the Cherven Cities, which had been both a massive pagan power and a massive pain in the rear for the Slavicised Khazar Aqhazar family of Sadec during the heyday of their expansion. Although the Cherven Cities under Grand Prince Daniil had been the first of the Rus’ to convert to Orthodoxy under the influence of Moravia, they had continue to bear themselves proudly and overbearingly among their brethren both to the west and to the east. As a result, even after the rule of Galicia had fallen to the Rychnovský-Nisa family, it had been only natural for the Moravian princes after Kaloján chrabrý to seek out defensive alliances against them with the Balgarsko rulers of Ruthenia further east. Relations with the Galician Rus’ themselves, however, had been fraught with border tensions and contests over land and honour.

    In addition, a small fragment of the Rus’ had come under the sway of Moravia under King Eustach in the mid-1000s. The Pavelkov family, which ruled a small band of Rus’ from the Carpathians under the leadership of a woman, Alina Pavelková, in the 960s, were subjugated by the Árpád Magyar kingdom. However, the Magyars were busily assimilating to their Slavic neighbours, and so the Rus’ customs of the Pavelkovs were largely left alone. So it remained until the kňažná Čestislava Pavelková was captured alive by King Eustach and forced to swear fealty to him. Radomír 4. had married Ekaterina Svätoplukovná Koceľuk, a daughter of one of these Carpathian Rus’ families descended from Čestislava Pavelková. Despite this long connexion between Moravia and the Carpathian Rus’ through the Pavelkov patrimony, the Bohemian and Moravian nobility still tended to distrust the Carpathian Rusin subjects of the Far East as potentially disloyal—agents of Hungary or of the Carpathian Empire.

    Róbert Rychnovský had taken to diplomatically pursuing closer relations with Věluň. This principality, ruled by Budivoj Rychnovský-Nisa, did not actually control the township for which it was named; Věluň was in fact centred on Brassel in Nether Silesia. This ‘adjustment’ was greeted with outrage by the Galician branch of the Rychnovský family, and some significant restructuring to the deployment of Moravia’s diplomatic offices had to follow.

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    ‘This manipulation will not be allowed to stand, Róbert,’ shouted Jaropluk Rychnovský-Nisa, Galicia’s diplomat, to the diminutive king. ‘Don’t think that your attempt to suborn our kinsman Budivoj in your political games will go unanswered!’

    ‘Everyth—thing I have done has b—been above board!’ Róbert answered him. ‘No p—political games.’

    ‘Dare you say that? Dare you say that to our faces?’ Jaropluk reddened. ‘This is a hostile act upon our borders! You are propping up Budivoj in order to undermine the good name and credit of His Majesty, Prince Yurii. Dare you deny it, even now?’

    ‘I deny it c—completely and utterly!’ Róbert said, roused to anger. ‘If B—Budivoj has s—sought us out, it was only on b—behalf of his own inheritance! Do you d—dare suggest that Yurii hasn’t f—formed designs of his own upon V—Věluň?’

    (This wasn’t the whole story—the initiative was indeed Róbert’s—but it did have a grain of truth to it. Budivoj, who had no male issue, had sought to pass Věluň on to his daughter Rodana through her dowry, according to traditional Slavic law. But Yurii, as the head of Budivoj’s house, as well as his agents in the Vojvoda’s court, were pressuring Věluň to adopt the Salic inheritance laws of the East Franks, in order to entail the ducal title upon Yurii 3.’s own sons.)

    Jaropluk levelled an accusatory finger at the Moravian king. ‘You’ll regret this, Róbert. You’ve gotten too big for your own good. Someone needs to cut you down to size.’

    Róbert (though not a dwarf already a diminutive man, and conscious of it) struck the end of Pazúr against the ground. ‘Enough, Jaropluk. This audience is over.’

    Jaropluk Rychnovský-Nisa turned on his heel and stalked out.

    ‘We haven’t heard the last of him, Father,’ warned Róbert’s son, Vojtech.

    ‘I r—refuse to be int—t—timidated by Yurii Rychnovský-Nisa!’ Róbert growled. ‘It would be the sh—shame of my fathers!’

    The ramifications, when they came, were first economic. The Moravian merchants who did business in Warsaw were rounded up and beaten with horsewhips, and soon found their stalls, goods and cash stores seized by Galician gendarmes. They returned to Olomouc, with the head merchant airing their grievance loudly before the king.

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    ‘Your Majesty, please! This vengeance falls on our heads because of your words to the Galician ambassador. We are begging you, please do not let us lose our businesses and our families!’

    Róbert was a strict man, but he was neither unjust, nor unmoved to pity by the plight of these merchants, who had little at all to do with the diplomatic fallout between Galicia and Moravia. ‘V—very well,’ he answered them. ‘I sh—shall make restitution to you from the state’s c—coffers, though it w—will run the state into d—debt once more.’

    After this, Vasilii Koceľuk brought forward two noblemen of Czech extraction. With ceremony, he presented them to his grandfather.

    Dedko,’ he told Róbert, ‘these are Ruslav ze Švamberka of Plzeň and Bošek Pilchramb of Brno. Both men are ready to serve you in official capacity as leaders of our army.’

    Ruslav came forward with a bow. ‘I, the unworthy Ruslav, swear my everlasting loyalty before Christ our God, to your Majesty and to the Moravian Crown.’

    ‘I too, the humble Bošek, upon my honour swear by my life and by my death, always to serve the Kingdom of Moravia. May Christ witness my oath.’

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    Both men looked quite sharp and prepossessing, and so Róbert accepted both of their oaths with pleasure. One problem that faced him at the present, however, was a distinct lack of funds. The promise that he had given to the merchants formerly working in Warsaw proved costly, and he had to apply to the same Paduan banking families for funds that his wife had done several years before. The funds arrived quite timely, though his wife hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that the rates of interest were not favourable.

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    And so, for a second time, Róbert was forced to lay claim to lands currently under disputed ownership. This cost him the good opinion, especially, of the Moravian Orthodox Church. And certain laymen whose zeal for the faith overrode their good sense.

    In Bratislava, Orthodox zealots led by a man named Rostislav Veleň managed to arm themselves with pikes and cannon, and lay siege to the city. Róbert swiftly sent both his new generals down to help crush the revolt. Ze Švamberka, leading the Pilsner Army, reached Bratislava first, and began making quick work of the rebels. However, when Pilchramb arrived, it quickly became clear that the two of them worked well together. Ze Švamberka understood implicitly how to order a disciplined line of fire, while Pilchramb—true to his name—was better able to perambulate the field with free-flowing manoeuvres and find points of weakness to exploit in the enemy formation. The zealous rebels may have thought God was on their side, but in truth they didn’t have a prayer.

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    The battle did reveal to ze Švamberka, however, that the Spießen worked best when the whole formation wielded weapons of similar weight and reach. He then gave these recommendations to Knieža Vasilii Koceľuk, who ordered all infantry units to adopt the new standard specifications for the Spieß. In order to appease the Church, however, Róbert Rychnovský ended up calling the Stavovské Zhromaždenie, hearing the proposals from the clergy in particular, and then affirming his determination to construct a house of worship in Budějovice.

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    And then came the fateful day: the first of May, 1466.

    The yellow-bearded Slav upon horseback, crossing the muddy roads that led down from the Silesian mountains into the Moravian plain, came at last to the castle of Olomouc and was ushered inside with great ceremony. He first went to embrace the grizzled, one-eyed Jaromír Rychnovský-Nisa and plant the kiss of brotherhood upon both of his cheeks, for indeed close kin they were. Then Jaromír took Budivoj himself before the king, who similarly greeted him with the kiss due between close kin.

    Kráľ Róbert,’ Budivoj said to him, ‘I have come to return to the Moravian roots I sprang forth from.’

    ‘And you are w—welcome here always,’ Róbert assured him. ‘There is always a p—place for you b—by our hearth.’

    ‘And I have come to deliver my oath.’

    ‘There is n—no hurry,’ Róbert patted Budivoj’s shoulders. ‘Come within and t—take your leisure awhile.’

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    Budivoj had not gotten far inside the hall before the flash of a blade met Róbert’s eyes from the corner. Elderly he might be, and stammering as always, but he had not lost one whit of his old sharpness. With a deft step he placed his own body between himself and Budivoj just as the assassin—a page from among Jaromír’s retinue—lunged for the fatal strike.

    Pazúr sailed up from Róbert’s side and smote the treacherous page across the pate, sending him reeling and bloodied backward. Róbert turned the weapon in his hand and advanced again with blow after blow until the page was lying prone beneath him on the flagstones. He then raised Pazúr one final time and let the sharp head fall.

    Róbert turned to face Jaromír, his eyes furiously blazing.

    ‘I—my Liege, he—he was just hired. I took him in at my cousin Yurii’s urging…!’

    So,’ Róbert spat venomously. ‘That c—c—conniver th—thought to attack m—my guest like this? By s—stealth, like a coward? As G—God in Heaven s—sees me, Yurii will pay for this devilry! Galicia… sh—shall be humiliated!’

    However, Galician foot soldiers and riders were already on the westward advance: as they had been, as soon as they had heard that Budivoj was travelling to Olomouc to deliver his oath of fealty, renewing Věluň’s status as Moravia’s vassal. Thus began what would come to be called the May Day War between Galicia and Moravia.

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    Act I Chapter Seven
  • SEVEN.
    The Short Reign of Vojtech 4.
    22 February 1469 – 28 July 1472


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    ‘Milady, the three finalists are here.’

    ‘Please, show them in,’ said Predslava.

    The duenna of the royal household led inside three young women, all of them very properly dressed in long gowns, with conical caps and silken veils upon their heads. At a signal from the older woman, each of the girls stepped toward the queen and gave an immaculate courtesy. The selection of the queen’s personal maid was a matter of great scrutiny and solemnity, and had been so ever since the days of Queen Lodovica, the consort of Vojtech 2. The scandal surrounding the affairs and murderous schemes of Lodovica’s predecessor Alexandrina, and the treasonous connivance of her maids against the crown, had prompted the reform. Starting with Lodovica’s, all the queen’s personal maids were required to be of noble birth and good breeding, quiet, modest, clean of life and regular in attendance at church. Such were these three supposed to be. Each one of them introduced herself as she stepped forward.

    ‘Karmila Hlinka of Bruntál, daughter of Barón Zdravoslav Hlinka, gives her most fervent and sincere well-wishes for Your Majesty’s health and salvation.’

    ‘Helene Mosienková of Budějovice, daughter of Burgomaster Vladimir Mosienkov, prays that the all-holy Mother of God bless Your Majesty with wisdom and kindness all your days.’

    ‘Jolana Volková of Ústi nad Labem, daughter of šafár Ctirad Volkov of Litoměřice, beseeches God Almighty may save Your Majesty and adorn your crown with glory.’

    Predslava looked over all three of the well-behaved pubescent girls with approval. All of them looked like very sweet and proper young ladies. Karmila, dark-haired and serious, seemed like she would be a formidable guardian of her interests. Jolana was a tiny, petite young thing who looked delicate and innocent and childlike in her clothes—she couldn’t be older than eleven! Predslava’s eyes came back to the centre girl, Helene, whose blonde hair was done up quite severely and whose hands were folded properly in front of her. She had a handsome, regular square face, and right now she bore an expression as serious as each of her compatriots to either side, but she had a nascent pair of smile-lines even at her young age, and a glint in her green-blue eyes that hinted that she might harbour a vivacious sense of humour. The queen took an instant liking to this one.

    ‘I thank you all for coming here. Duenna,’ the queen told the severe governess, ‘please give the circlet to Miss Mosienková, and conduct Miss Hlinka and Miss Volková back to the hall, give them ten gold denáry each, and write letters to their fathers commending their loyalty and their diligent parenting. When you return, we shall discuss Mosienková’s duties.’

    The selection had been made. The duenna led the two girls on either side out of the queen’s chamber, leaving Predslava alone with Helene, who dared to look up toward her new mistress. Predslava placed a gentle hand on Helene’s cheek. ‘You and I are going to get on quite well together, I believe, Miss Mosienková. I look forward to having you among my staff.’

    ‘Your Majesty is most kind,’ Helene Mosienková dipped her head again.

    ~~~

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    It was in fact little surprise that Helene Mosienková would have made the final cut for the selection of the royal maid. Public piety in Budějovice was at an all-time high after the King had bestowed—at the request of the Stavovské Zhromaždenie—a generous fund upon the burgomaster of that town toward the renovation and expansion of Saint Gorazd’s in that town. The church now had a very fine white stone façade, and a dome which radiated reflected light from its gilding all over town. The clergy were quite grateful to the king for this favour, as were the burghers of the town. Vojtech’s šafár reported to his satisfaction that the tax rolls from Budějovice had never been so thoroughly accounted, nor the revenues collected so efficiently.

    And Mosienková herself proved to be a very useful asset to the queen. King Vojtech 4. often visited Predslava in her chambers, whether to take counsel or to seek solace in the marriage-bed. Mosienková made herself discreet at all times, never chided or whispered, and made sure to tidy up afterward for the queen. She assisted in caring for the royal couple’s grandson, Prokop posmrtný, in the absence of his mother who had taken vows—even to the point of helping the young boy bathe. She also aided in the several alliances that the king sought to arrange, and that the queen was left to fulfil.

    ‘Let’s see…’ Helene accounted, looking over Predslava’s notes. She bit down on one fingernail. A bad habit—one of her only ones—but it tended to overtake her only when she was deep in thought. ‘Věluň is seeking to renew royal ties. With that recent assassination attempt, little wonder…’

    ‘Galicia isn’t going to like that,’ Predslava remarked dryly.

    ‘And milord your husband wants to renew ties with the Oskyldr and Svinhufvud families, seems like,’ Helene leafed through the other papers. ‘What about betrothing Lesana to Áellat Svinhufvud? She’s a little older than he is…’

    Predslava shook her head. ‘The age difference is too great; Greta would never approve.’

    ‘What about Queen Margareta’s brother, Ivvár? He isn’t married, is he?’

    ‘… Better,’ the queen approved. ‘I’ll mention it to Vojtech. As for the Oskyldrov, perhaps Svietlana would be willing to marry Boris Oskyldr instead.’

    ‘He will be a good match for your lady niece,’ Helene approved.

    Both of them are good matches. But it runs us out of unmarried women on our side!’ Predslava sighed in frustration as she leafed through the rest of the papers. ‘I’ll have to ask my husband if there are any other eligible Rychnovská girls in Věluň for our Totil to marry. That’s the only way a dynastic match will happen there, I’m afraid.’

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    ~~~​

    Kráľ Vojtech was out in the courtyard by himself one morning, enjoying the weather. The loss of his father and the loss of his son to war were both wounds which he bore hard, and being out-of-doors was one of the things which helped.

    He heard a loud crack! from the area by the butts. He strode across the courtyard to have a look, and found there a zbrojnoš levelling a thin metal pipe, with an s-shaped metal lever two thirds of the way down its length, connected with a short length of wet twine, and mounted on a wooden stock like a crossbow. The zbrojnoš steadied the weapon on its tripod, while the middle-aged přeskapitán Ivan Žerotínov observed him. Vojtech watched as the man-at-arms braced the piece against his shoulder, took aim, and fired with another crack!

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    There was a plume of dark smoke upward from the weapon, and a spurt of flame from its mouth. The Carpatho-Russian přeskapitán’s mouth thinned in satisfaction as a watchman reported from the butts:

    ‘He struck the yellow this time!’

    Putëm,’ said Žerotínov approvingly. ‘Your aim is improving.’

    The zbrojnoš gave a bow and retired. The next zbrojnoš took the weapon, blew the chamber clean, loaded a ball and powder and stuffed it down, then mounted it on the tripod, preparing for the next shot as Žerotínov gave the orders. It was then that Žerotínov spotted Vojtech observing at a distance.

    ‘Your Majesty,’ the Carpatho-Russian called out. ‘Observe our training, if it please you.’

    ‘I have been,’ Vojtech answered as Ivan Žerotínov strode over to him. ‘Quite impressive.’

    ‘Our blacksmiths have been suggesting improvements to the hákupuška, including a single “match-lock” mechanism,’ Ivan noted. ‘This shows some promise. I have also suggested the stock mounting for ease of carriage and setup.’

    ‘The men are hitting the targets now,’ Vojtech observed.

    ,’ Ivan nodded. ‘The next step will be to test the improved hákupuška against armour. I will set up several pieces on stands by the butts and measure the degree of penetration.’

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    Vojtech regarded Ivan appreciatively. The Russian captain hailed from the polonina, and specifically from the border region south of Maramoroš which still lay under Carpathian sway. Although the Žerotínové were a family of noble Kievan origins (supposedly), Ivan’s upbringing had been among the opriški—axe-wielding bandits who raided the wealthy on either side of the border and distributed their ill-gotten gains among the poor and infirm. A willingness to improvise and deviate from the standard rules of battle was one of the things that Róbert before him had approved, and which Vojtech valued in turn… though his innovative methods had hardly won him any friends among the other nobility in Moravia.

    The opriški in the region around Zemplín in particular had become something of a problem. Ivan’s inside knowledge of the opriški had been immensely valuable in curbing their excesses, cutting deals with them or cracking down as the situation demanded. Although the Moravian nobility had—rather vocally—expressed their doubts about Žerotínov’s loyalties, his service in these areas had left the king in no doubt at all.

    ‘Can you get some of these new weapons up to Julevädno and the Kildins, and have them trained in their use? I don’t like the moves that the East Geats have been making on their marches. These hákupušky may serve to deter them.’

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    ‘I will see to it, Majesty,’ Ivan bowed curtly. ‘It may take several months.’

    ‘Good. Do so.’

    Vojtech clutched the left side of his chest at a sudden pang of pain which shot up his shoulder. Ever since the end of the war with Galicia, his heart had been giving him problems.

    ‘Majesty?’ Ivan asked him, bracing him for support. ‘Are you well?’

    ‘I am fine,’ Vojtech answered. ‘Thank you.’

    Vojtech didn’t feel quite as fine as he’d given his přeskapitán to believe. He hoped it was not a sign of greater health issues—perhaps it would be a good idea to check in with the court physician.

    ~~~

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    On the twenty-eighth of July, 1472, the royal family and all their attendants attired themselves entirely in black for the second time within the space of four years. Vojtech was embalmed and laid in state in Velehrad Cathedral, where the Orthodox of that town all came to pay their respects to him before he was laid in the ground. Predslava wept softly, supported at the shoulder and consoled by her young personal maid, Miss Mosienková. The kingdom of Moravia now lay in the hands of a dark-haired, hazel-eyed toddler—a great-grandson to Róbert Rychnovský, a grandson to Vojtech and Predslava, and a son to Bohodar and Liusia, whom Róbert and Bohodar had never met in the flesh.

    More correctly—it lay in the hands of Boleslav Stibor, a Silesian nobleman who had been entrusted with the diplomatic relations to the north. He was the natural choice when it came to considerations of a guardian for the young boy, and a regent for his reign until he came of age.

    Although little Prokop posmrtný obediently allowed himself to be draped in the Robe of Radomír, and had the sceptre and orb placed in his hands, and the oil painted upon his head by the Metropolitan of Velehrad, it was Boleslav who stood by the side with his arms folded across his chest. It was to him that the estates of the realm would look for guidance, and to him that they would be answerable, for good or ill. Stibor smiled a grim smile as the three-year-old stumbled through the oaths of office that were still, like the garments of kingship that engulfed him, still much too large for him.

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    Act I Chapter Eight
  • EIGHT.
    With a Young King in Between
    28 July 1472 – 24 January 1484


    I.
    18 July 1472 – 27 June 1476

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    Babka,’ asked the dark-haired little boy. ‘What’s wrong?’

    The Ruthenian grandmother of the young king gave her five-year-old grandson a fond tousle of the head. Predslava’s once-auburn hair had gone nearly all white from the grief and strain of the last few years, and the deep smile-lines in her round face had deepened into a heart-breaking sadness. The lad’s sympathy was real, honest and heartfelt—there was no doubt, no guile at all in those earnest hazel eyes. And it was of course kind of him to offer. But her problems were sadly beyond his understanding, let alone his help.

    Šafár Boleslav Stibor—the man who had been appointed in charge of little Prokop’s upbringing and stewarding his governance until the boy was old enough to rule in his own right—had been the source of most of those problems. It had been subtle at first. An insinuation here, a cold shoulder there, a course taken without her input: but it had become a pattern. Stibor was deliberately freezing Predslava out of all decisions relating to the running of the Moravian state, and—what rankled still further—out of all decisions relating to little Prokop’s upbringing. It had been a stroke of luck that she’d even managed to have this little interview with him now.

    ‘Nothing you need to worry about, my heart,’ Predslava shook her head. ‘Does Boleslav let you play?’

    Prokop nodded. ‘I like to play with my toy knights and horses.’

    ‘Good. You are getting enough sleep? You are eating well?’

    ‘Mm!’ Prokop nodded. ‘But I don’t get to eat dumplings like you have here.’

    Predslava gave a nod to Helene Mosienková, who courtesied deeply and hurried out of the room upon her ladyship’s silent command. ‘Well then, make sure you eat what you can while you’re here. Babka misses you a lot, you know.’

    ‘I miss you too!’ Prokop gave Predslava a tight hug.

    Unbidden, tears came to Predslava’s eyes. How long ago had it been that she’d been looking after Bohodar like this? And then he had gone into the grave, along with Róbert, followed too soon after by her Vojtech. And now that man was conspiring to keep her own grandson away from her as much as he could get away with. It was too cruel. She hugged Prokop back, tightly and long, and squeezed him about the round young shoulders.

    The lady’s-maid Helene came back, with a knife and a wooden platter of several pirôžky stuffed with mushrooms, cabbage and cottage cheese, and seasoned with oil and dill, which she set up for him on the table in the chamber. Prokop crossed himself like a well-brought-up little boy, and set to with gusto. He loved pirôžky—even though they were very much so a peasant dish from the polonina.

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    Helene went back to where her mistress sat, seeing her eyes still wet and red-rimmed, and placed a caring hand on her shoulder. Predslava gave Miss Mosienková a watery smile and patted her back. Her own little island of solidarity in a court suddenly turned cold to the Ruthenian widow in their midst, Mosienková had proven invaluable to her in these past few months.

    As Prokop ate his dinner, Helene dared to speak to her mistress.

    ‘Milady, have you considered giving an audience to Ivan Olegovič?’

    ‘The přeskapitán?’ asked the former queen, a little taken aback by her maid’s suggestion. ‘Why? What would a military drillmaster, of all men, have to do with me?’

    Helene lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Well, mistress… he is a Ruthenian, like you—from Podkarpatská. And if the stories I hear about him are true, he’s likely to be sympathetic to someone of your background. It can’t hurt matters to have an ally.’

    Prokop finished up eating his last pirôžek, down to the last flake of crust and the last smear of cottage cheese, cleaned up his hands and face and came back to his grandmother. He spent as long as he could with Predslava, talking and playing with her, before the governess whom Stibor had appointed to shepherd him about came to claim him. With reluctance he went back to his quarter of the castle, again leaving Predslava alone.

    ‘Yes,’ the widow told her maid as her grandson left. ‘Give me an interview with Žerotínov. If he can give me back even a shred of the dignity I once had as a mother and a grandmother—it will be worth it.’

    ~~~​

    Ivan Olegovič Žerotínov came out from his brief interview with the widowed former queen with something of a sense of bewilderment and puzzlement. He hadn’t advanced this far in the service in Moravia without a certain sense of political advantage. It was clear from Predslava’s insistence on their shared Carpatho-Russian origins that she was expecting some consideration from him. And given the way that she had been effectively isolated from court affairs on a modest pension, an out-of-the-way apartment in Olomouc Castle, limited access to her own royal grandson (endlessly in the care of others), and a single servant to her name… Ivan had a certain inkling about the nature of the consideration she wanted from him. She wanted him as her ally in the court.

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    The přeskapitán wasn’t unsympathetic to the poor woman. But at the same time, he had built his long career in the ranks of the Moravian Army—as a Russian-speaking ‘Lipovan’ and ‘foreigner’ and as a former oprišek—very carefully. He had come to be trusted to this degree precisely by not taking sides among court factions. And court politics were heating up. There was a dissension roiling the military ranks between those favouring a more offensive posture and those more insistent on shoring up town walls and strategic fortifications.

    Also, the Stavovské Zhromaždenie had just met, and as usual the cassocks were at odds with the landed over where to spend the state’s funds, and the townsfolk were at loggerheads with both, urging that the state coffers should be stockpiled in case of real need. The burgher estate in Moravia had been hit hard recently, with several large merchant families coming under suspicion of disloyalty, and a general bearish trend among their interests, so that particular conservative preference among them didn’t come as a surprise to the přeskapitán at all.

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    Žerotínov growled and shook his head as he went back to the training-grounds. The three tipping balances merged in his mind into a single one. It was unclear which of the three civil-conciliar factions the Regent would favour as yet, though he had a good idea that Boleslav Stibor would stick his thumb on the offensive side of the scale in the military debate.

    Well, well. Perhaps he might be of service to the former queen after all, albeit indirectly. Žerotínov went straight to the garrison officer who would be on the defensive side of the operational debate.

    ‘I’ll give you my support,’ Žerotínov told him. If Stibor had to face some principled opposition from Žerotínov on the military front, it might leave Predslava a bit of room to breathe in her rear corner of the castle. It might even get her a bit more time together with the grandson she longed to see.

    ~~~

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    The death of the field general Bošek Pilchramb, having been hit by a stray lead pellet during a training exercise with the newly-commissioned hákupušky, could not have come at a worse time. Ivan Olegovič had attended the funeral in solemn reverence, making his way through the procession to cross himself and touch his fellow-commander – as decently embalmed and laid-out as they could make him – along the arm in his casket.

    Unfortunately, the přeskapitán could not be allowed to mourn his comrade in peace. The fact that Pilchramb had been hit by a bullet from a hákupuška during a training exercise, had naturally led to a fresh round of unpleasant whispers and rumours that Pilchramb’s death had been engineered by the man who had introduced the new weapons to the troops. Žerotínov had to grind his teeth at that. Any impartial investigation would find that the troops under his command and drilling had been given every attention in building basic proficiency with the weapons’ safety, as well as the rudiments of good marksmanship. But once these things were pointed out publicly, the hidden whispers didn’t dissipate so much as take on a nasty turn. If Pilchramb hadn’t died thanks to Žerotínov’s negligence, then perhaps it was owing to malice—jealousy, perhaps?

    Žerotínov was not a vain man, but as a career military man he did place a certain value upon his image. He understood well that as a Carpatho-Russian from the hilly far east of Great Moravia, he would be subject to a certain degree of suspicion from the better-ensconced noblemen of Moravia Proper and Nitra. But he hadn’t imagined their willingness to slander him and blacken his good name with insinuations of premeditated murder… and at that, of a comrade-in-arms that he liked and respected!

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    Žerotínov couldn’t put it out of his mind that this had been owing to his public opposition to Boleslav Stibor’s desire to pour more energy and funding into building the army’s offensive posture. But Stibor himself had more urgent and important matters to attend to! His whole attention thus far had been on the delicate diplomatic dance of bringing the vojvoda Budivoj Rychnovský-Nisa of Věluň ‘in from the cold’, and fully integrating the voivodeship once more as a full member of the Moravian kingdom. (Not that the case was hard to make after the Galician assassination attempt—but the devil, as the saying went, was all in the details.) If it hadn’t been Stibor, then, perhaps it was one of the other generals in the offencist camp: probably Švamberka.

    At any rate, Pilchramb hadn’t been long laid in the ground before the thunderbolt struck. Once again Grand Princess Rostislava Khovanskaya had pressed her claim upon the Kárpátok Birodalma—this time upon the Bessarabian lands, including the eastern Csángóföld from which Árpád Czenzi had once hailed. Moravia was honour-bound to answer the call to war, and join on the Ruthenians’ behalf. And, to say nothing of the former queen Predslava, the troubles of Ivan Olegovič Žerotínov had only just begun.

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    Act I Chapter Nine
  • Cheers, @Idhrendur! And he's not done doing that...


    NINE.
    The Soirée
    31 January 1484 – 17 October 1490


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    The polite hubbub of the Great Hall subsided as the seventeen-year-old king slid out the servants’ door practically unnoticed, his hand holding a much-older one. The woman of the tight honey-gold bun to whom the hand belonged quietly closed the door behind her. Prokop paused in the flight he was leading, turned around, and leaned back toward his female companion to steal a kiss from her. The touch of their lips was brief, but it burned him, seared him, lit him up with a desire such as he’d never known before.

    ‘Wait,’ Helene Mosienková begged him. ‘Please…’

    There was an urgent rustle of fabrics between them, punctuated by the sound of hot breaths and more kisses, becoming more and more passionate.

    The former royal chambermaid’s voice, when it came, was a tormented whisper. ‘No… Prokop… I’m a virtuous woman. I’m not like… I don’t just…’

    ‘Helene, don’t be that way. You like me. You’ve liked me for a long time.’

    ‘I—I do like you, Prokop… but…’ Helene felt her reasoning slipping away from her in a drowning haze of desire. ‘But… I’m so much older than you…!’

    ‘That never stopped Eustach. Or Kaloján. Or my great-grandfather. Older blondes are… a historical weakness of the Rychnovský menfolk. It’s a weakness I think I share.’

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    Damn this boy and his historical studies! thought Helene… briefly, before the tenderness of the young king’s cheeks, the sweet taste of his lips, and the ardent warmth of his smooth young hands beneath her petticoat threatened to subsume her reason entirely. This was absurd—! There was nearly a fifteen-year gap between them! She had tended him as an infant—! But all of these objections faded out in the sweet haze of physical desire. Helene could feel her resolve, her carefully-kept chambermaid’s honour, dissolving under that warm touch. Helene could already feel, and was savouring, Prokop’s hard young-manhood thrusting up against her most carefully-guarded spot, a hungry monster threatening to leap through his breeches. Her virgin purity wouldn’t last much longer if he kept this up!

    Helene clasped the king’s face in her hands. ‘Prokop—I know you want me. Do you love me?’

    Prokop looked back at her, his eyes blazing unguardedly. ‘I do love you, Helene Vladimirovná Mosienková. I love you from the depths of my heart. You were my grandmother’s woman right to the bitter end. And now I would have you—true, honest, loyal, wonderful you—be mine!’

    She held his gaze for one long, hard moment, before she murmured: ‘Take me to the chapel. Please. I’m all yours, Prokop, all of me—but take me to the chapel first.’

    Prokop kissed first one of her hands, then the other. ‘It shall be as my queen orders.’

    ~~~​

    In truth, Helene Mosienková hadn’t planned on staying in Olomouc much longer after Prokop came of age. She had kept an eye on her grandson, to look out for his well-being as long as he was still under Boleslav Stibor’s thumb. And then, in January of 1484, with the king his own master and her mind at ease, she had returned with due honour to her hometown of Budějovice. She had discharged her final promise to the former Queen Predslava. It was broadly expected—a modest and upright virgin of twenty-nine years who had stood faithfully by the queen her whole adult life—that she would retire to a life of contemplation in a cloister nearby. But her stay at home hadn’t lasted long… and her life took this unexpected turn.

    The new king had requested and required of his most prominent noble families that they begin attending lavish court events, paid for from the state treasury. Expensive as such events were, there was something highly tactical in them—the most perspicacious of the notable noble families were able to tell that Kráľ Prokop was attempting to head off any more potential Ján Zajič-style noble uprisings. Having the nobles (and their immediate families) spend more of their time in the capital was an effective way to decrease their opportunities to plot and scheme from their own manors. There was more than a bit of steel gauntlet behind this particular velvet glove.

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    Also, 1484 had also been a very fine year for Moravia’s bowers: a mild winter, an early spring thaw, and a long and temperate summer with plenty of rain. The agricultural surplus had been significant. There was plenty to go around, and of course the royal taxmen had gotten a fat cut of it. The kitchens were busy, and the royal cooks were itching for guests upon whom to practise their gastronomical arts.

    The daughter of Vladimir Mosienkov had, naturally, been curious enough about these new developments to find her gaze wending back toward Olomouc. When she arrived in Olomouc again, it was as a lady-courtier, at ease and free of attachments. And she had been welcomed back with enthusiasm by the king—in person.

    It oughtn’t to have unsettled her as much as it did. She had known Prokop from a baby. She had watched him grow up under his caring grandmother’s eye. But the tall, gallant, sandy-haired youngster in his regal trappings, who had kissed her hand with such suave grace, had caused her heart to flutter in a way she’d never felt before toward a man. Suddenly she was adrift at sea without an anchor—a rather bad position to be in, the burgomaster’s daughter reflected ruefully, for a woman who had never so much as seen a seaworthy craft, let alone the open ocean.

    Moravia did have a fleet… and it was stationed, for the moment, at Luleå—a port belonging to Moravia’s crown vassal-state of Julevädno. The rebels still held onto Biela Karélia, comfortably ensconced in their forested lakeside fastness, at present beyond the reach of Moravian arms. While in Olomouc, Helene did happen to overhear the young king in conference with several of his senior ministers, including his maršal and his kancelár, about what he planned to do about the situation.

    ‘Have the Ruthenians accepted our proposal?’ asked Prokop.

    ‘Lev 2. has already sent for your sister Anna,’ said the kancelár, whose name presently escaped Helene. ‘The two of them will be wed at the end of the month.’

    ‘A pity that Knyaginya Rostislava is no longer with us,’ Prokop shook his head sadly. ‘She was a great friend of great-grandfather’s. I’m sure we could have used her help here.’

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    ‘The Ruthenians have long been our friends,’ the new maršal noted dryly. ‘But their help won’t be nearly as necessary as Feodor Roslavský’s in Biela Rus’. The White Russians are the only friendly power in the neighbourhood with a usable port in the Baltic: Engurie. If we want to ferry any troops up to Julevädno, White Russian goodwill is every bit as necessary as Great Russian.’

    ‘And that only gets them as far as Luleå,’ Prokop sighed in frustration. Helene couldn’t help but notice that even though his sigh still sounded boyish, his mind was moving as intelligently and as decisively as any other man’s in that room. ‘If we’re going to end this rebellion, it sounds like we need to enter into talks, either with Garderike, or with the central Sámi tribes.’

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    ‘Your former Regent already got us some headway on that front, my liege,’ said the kancelár again. ‘Siding with the Latin Central Sámi over the Orthodox Kildins didn’t earn him many friends… but it does put us in a position to call in a return favour from them.’

    ‘Thank God for Stibor,’ Prokop crossed himself. ‘Very well—send an envoy there, up from Julevädno.’

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    Helene didn’t catch any more of the conversation than that. But unbeknownst to the young king, he had thoroughly impressed his courtier with his confident handling of policy.

    That had been before the soirée. The twenty-fifth of August, 1486. The night when Helene had been swept off her feet.

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    If she had been in any doubt before about the king’s preference for her, the grand evening ball in the Great Hall at Olomouc Castle had put all of those doubts to rest. There had been any number of lovely eligible young ladies within the king’s reach, for him to dance with when the violins began to play. And every one of them would have been willing, given the boy’s beardless good looks and his ready tongue. But he had singled her—Helene Mosienková—out for the first dance. That might have been chalked up to familiarity. But then he asked her hand for the fourth dance, the fifth, the sixth and the seventh. He pressed his palm against hers and stepped with lively passion, and each time they met in the centre, his eyes met and held hers.

    The violinists stopped for a break, and the king had gallantly brought her off the floor to a seat, and poured her a glass of fine wine from his own hands. He had asked after her father, expressed his desire to visit Budějovice. And then he had clasped her hands in his, and laid bare his heart to her. How could she not have gone with him after that? Love was as new and raw to her as it was to him, and she couldn’t deny how intensely she felt the burning.

    And so it passed between them in the narrow corridor leading down to the kitchens—with furtive kisses that grew ever more intense and passionate, with bodies drawn closer and warmer, dangerously close to the intimate dance of man and woman, that ancient dance of Adam with Eve, bone of bone and flesh of flesh. And so it passed that hand-in-hand they ran to the castle chapel together, to marry—as the Apostle Paul had advised—rather than burn. The hasty and simple private vows they took before the chapel rector that night, had to be fig-leafed over with the appropriate public ceremonies in the coming months. But Helene Mosienková was well and truly Prokop Rychnovský’s wife and queen now, in every sense that mattered.

    ~~~​

    In late April 1487, eight months after their wedding night, Queen Helene joined her husband in his study. Prokop reached a fond hand back to her as she slid toward him, her belly immense and nearing a perfect fullness as her due date drew near. She took his hand warmly, and her handsome square face glanced down at what Prokop was studying. It was a military chart of the Baltic, and there were figurines of ships and men stationed upon it.

    ‘Is it about to happen?’ asked his wife.

    ‘With God’s blessing,’ Prokop breathed, crossing himself. ‘And Lev Khovanský’s. And Feodor Roslavský’s. And Fredrik Gautske-Gauldal’s. The fleet has returned to Luleå with the troops they picked up from Engurie. By now, Ruslav ze Švamberka ought to be closing the distance to Lake Tuoppajärvi. We won’t hear word from them for another two months at least. But if all of these dominoes manage to topple, each the right way, the rebellion in Biela Karélia will soon be over. The north will be at peace again.’

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    ‘And it took all of these treaties for military access and fleet basing rights to pull off?’ asked Helene.

    ‘Sad to say,’ Prokop frowned at the map. ‘Sometimes I feel like Biela Karélia is more trouble than it’s worth to keep. But I see no way to rid myself of it, not without dispossessing a number of my cousins and throwing the fate of Sápmi into confusion. I don’t want to hand to our child a realm in chaos.’

    Helene drew the hand of the man who loved her, up toward her belly, and held it there.

    ‘I believe in you.’

    Prokop smiled up at his wife with sincere gratitude.

    ‘I’m happy.’

    ‘I know how the court whispers about us,’ Helene ran a fond hand through her husband’s hair. ‘You only just a man, and a woman nearly old enough to be your mother bearing your children. But soon they will see what I see. You are very much so a man: a firm and vigorous king. And you will leave to our child an easy rule. I am sure of it.’

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    By the time the news of Ruslav ze Švamberka’s triumph, and the rebels’ surrender, reached Olomouc, Helene had already given birth. Little Jozef Rychnovský had come into the world on the twenty-first of May, 1487—and his birth was marked by portents of God’s blessing upon Moravia, both large and small, of which the successful quelling of the Karelian rebellion was but the first.

    The agricultural bumper year of 1484 hadn’t been merely a fluke. Bowers in several villages in the Morava valley had reinvested the surplus of that year into new equipment and new techniques—as indeed had the miners in Čáslav. Full bellies and easy times evidently led to greater comfort with experimentation. And of course the Crown had reaped the benefits over the following years. Prokop used the windfall to pay off the last of his old Regent’s outstanding loans, and utilised the increased numbers of musketeers to experiment with new military tactics. The Moravian realm was flourishing and rich in those first years of Prokop’s rule—and whatever whispers might have circled around the court from his marrying his grandmother’s old chambermaid, they were largely put to rest by these clear marks of God’s favour upon his government.

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    Act I Chapter Ten
  • @Von Acturus: Quite so! Prokop's a rather decisive sort--one might almost say brash. Unfortunately he also has a bit of a tendency to run his mouth. Again, my apologies for not showing that in gameplay: I'm using the RoM DLC in a rather heterodox way.


    TEN.
    The Ivan Žerotínov Act
    17 October 1490 – 26 October 1493

    ‘Milord,’ the maršal Bedřich Pospisil got the king’s attention, ‘we need to discuss the situation on the western march. We can’t simply allow the tensions between the Bavarians and the Nordgauers to continue to build while the East Franks keep breathing down our necks!’

    Prokop considered, and then shrugged. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much to discuss, let alone to do. Bayern and Nordgau have been at each other’s throats for decades now, since Nordgau’s bid for independence. If we intervene, the East Franks will see it and use it as proof that we are indeed meddling in the affairs of the Germanic peoples.’

    ‘And if we do nothing,’ Pospisil intimated darkly, ‘then it will be the fate of our Orthodox brethren in the west to be swallowed up by the Latin powers. Would you have that on your conscience? Already Drážďany has fallen into their clutches, and the Orthodox faithful in Milčané suffer persecution.’

    Prokop turned and clasped Pospisil by the shoulders. ‘I know that. But the Lord says to possess our souls in patience. I turn to His wisdom. At times we must abide injustices, even cruel injustices, with the forbearance of Job. I have not forgotten Drážďany. And I am not indifferent to the strife between Bayern and Nordgau. But while we are still so heavily dependent on a carefully-built string of northeast alliances, so that we are not cut off from our own fleet, we simply can’t extend ourselves too far to the west.’

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    Bedřich Pospisil checked his stride. ‘I understand, my liege.’

    It was to the young Kráľ Prokop’s credit, and a testament to his native intelligence and understanding, that he did not allow himself to be easily swayed and blown about every which-way by his advisors. The king had learned, very early on, that the advisors who truly had the best interests of the realm at heart were few and far between. Even a man like Boleslav Stibor, who had served him so faithfully and for so long as Regent while he was only a child, had certain prejudices and weaknesses of temper which he occasionally allowed to surface, and which produced crises in the realm. The trick, the new king was quickly learning, was to understand his advisors’ weaknesses, and then to ‘overlook’ them until they became a problem. The rest could be handled with a sympathetic ear and a careful tongue.

    With regard to the fleet, there was considerable impetus to encourage the building of a shipyard in Luleå, now that there was enough talent and manpower to make it possible. But to Prokop, the fleet still felt like… well, a temperamental kite tethered to him only by the barest strand of twine. If he didn’t keep a firm hold of his alliances with the Khovanských in Great Ruthenia and the Oskyldrs in White Rus’, the winds of fate would pick up that fleet and blow the whole thing off-course!

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    ~~~​

    Môj milý—are you working on those Northeastern Initiatives again?’ asked Helene one night—her belly now swollen with their third child. ‘Would you like any help with them?’

    Prokop ran a hand through his sandy hair and chuckled bleakly. ‘You know, I could use all the help I can get,’ he owned. ‘This web of alliances we’ve built with Great Rus’ and White Rus’, as well as the more tenuous one with Sápmi up north—it’s putting rather a strain on our diplomatic corps.’

    ‘And why is that a problem?’ asked Helene, massaging her husband’s shoulders. ‘I haven’t yet met the foreign dignitary you couldn’t outtalk and outcharm.’

    Prokop grimaced. ‘In the ballroom? Perhaps, Helene, perhaps. But Moravia doesn’t need yet another diplomat wearing a crown right now—what Moravia needs is organisation, and that’s… something I’ve never been particularly good at.’

    ‘As anyone who’s seen the inside of your wardrobe might attest! Mind if I have a look?’ asked his queen. ‘One never knows when the experience of an old chambermaid might come in handy.’

    That much turned out to be true. Helene at once sorted the various paperwork and various orders into their proper piles, and moreover figured out another way to delegate the diplomatic missions to the northeast.

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    ‘You ought to have leaned a bit more on your grandmother’s old contacts, as well as your mother’s,’ said Helene knowingly. ‘I should hardly have to remind a king who’s half-Belarusian, but you have plenty of uncles and aunts inside White Rus’. I know it’s not the “done thing” anymore to appeal to the family honour in order to accomplish your goals, but in this case I think you could ease the burden on the Olomouc end by calling in a couple of favours.’

    ‘Do you think so?’ Prokop glowed. ‘You’re a lifesaver, Helene, moja láska! I knew I made the right decision, marrying you!’

    ‘Oh, stop,’ a slight smile crossed the handsome square face of the queen.

    His wife’s deft hands, however, had made it far easier for Prokop to imagine some potential new avenues to pursue in his Northeastern Initiatives. Placing more emphasis on the organisation of the diplomatic corps would make Moravia’s position a good deal more secure. He might have to look into the possibility of calling on his extended family in White Rus’, and seeing if any of them might be willing to undertake certain ambassadorial duties on Moravia’s behalf.

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    ~~~​

    On the domestic front, too, Prokop felt the weight of a long injustice that needed to be redressed. He had been preparing for precisely this moment since his accession to the throne. With the help of his valet he adjusted his mantle, and then strode out into the bailey of Olomouc Castle. It was the fifth of December in the Year of the World 7002. He gave the following speech:

    ‘Fellow Moravians—We greet you on this December day, upon which we are beginning our journey in the light fast of Advent, and looking forward to the Nativity of Our Lord. The first men to recognise the Lord, the Word of God in human flesh, were, so Holy Writ tells us, the wise men of the East and the poor shepherds around Bethlehem who were tending their flocks by night.

    ‘We Moravians have enjoyed prosperity without bounds in these past years. In the wake of this autumn we have reaped another year’s bounty and stored it for the winter. It has been a long time since We have had dearth. And yet We have brothers and sisters… shepherds like those whom the angels visited upon the Nativity… within our lands, who have not always been so fortunate.

    ‘Yes. We speak of the Russians who live within Our borders. Moravia has been a safe haven for persecuted peoples ever since our first King Bohodar. And ever since the mistress of Podkarpatská, Čestislava Pavelková, first swore fealty to Eustach the Church-Builder in 6541, the Russians of Podkarpatská have lived and died within our kingdom and sworn to serve God and the Crown. For four hundred and sixty years, the Rus’ have contributed their blood and their labour to our great kingdom—alongside Moravians, Bohemians, Silesians and Nitrans.

    ‘For all that time, men and women of Carpatho-Russian extraction have rendered great services to the Moravian state—including most prominently the noble Pavelkov and Koceľuk families. Knieža Grigorii Rostislavič Koceľuk fought valiantly in the Adamite Wars, and he made an honourable mark upon our kingdom as kancelár for the mighty Kráľ Kaloján. Kňažná Praksida Koceľová was, contrary to the limitations of her sex, a maršalka of the most formidable calibre for my ancestor Radomír 4., and her sister, my ancestress Kráľovná Ekaterína, was his loyal and affectionate consort.

    ‘Which brings Us, today, to our departed Esaul Ivan Olegovič Žerotínov.

    ‘Ivan Olegovič, a native of Snina, was the son of poor bowers in the hard Carpathian polonina. The Žerotínovcov had little wealth: but they had their honour, they had their neighbours, and they had each other. It was a long tradition for the Žerotínovcov to send their sons with their wood-axes and makeshift armour into the service of the Koceľukovci, and were as loyal to the Koceľuk banner as the Koceľukovci were to Moravia’s. Ivan’s father Oleg was among the zbrojnošov of Podkarpatská who fought in Syria, Mesopotamia and Armenia during the Thessaly Wars.

    ‘Ivan himself, however, came up the ranks the hard way. In his youth, rather than rallying to the Koceľuk standard, he absconded himself and joined a band of opriški in the south. Do not be so quick to blame those who turn to banditry! We here in Olomouc cannot hope to judge them. We cannot know the chaos and the injustices faced by the Russians who lived along that Carpathian borderland, in a state which saw seven Emperors overthrown within as many years. Even those on our Moravian side often faced the terror of rogue nobles who extorted food, plunder and women from the villages of Podkarpatská. In a lawless state such as that—who can blame a boy like Ivan for taking up his axe and turning to banditry in defence of his friends?

    ‘Ivan grew up considering himself more Carpathian than Moravian: this much is true. It is true, in fact, for many of the Russians who live in that land, and whose loyalties are torn by the four directions: between the Galicians to the north and the Carpathian Empire to their south; between the Great Rus’ to their east, and we Moravians to their west. Long have they said of themselves that they have no friends but the mountains. Ivan spent his youthful years together with the opriški fighting the injustice and plunder of the Carpathian nobles, as well as the encroachments of the Galicians with their lies and false promises. His family claims he even briefly joined a band of Cossacks from Great Rus’. He left Moravia as a young boy, and returned—though for that long Moravia had been at peace—as a seasoned fighter in the asymmetric warfare of the Carpathian foothills.

    ‘He eagerly joined Moravia’s war against Galicia, and some might say that his ferocity in battle and his zeal in our cause were doubled, having seen the depredations upon his people by those Galicians who claimed amity and friendship with them. And coming out of that war a veteran, he climbed the ranks to become a preškapitán. He was an expert in training new recruits, and his experience in the improvised warfare of the Carpathian border made him uniquely suited to studying and adapting new technologies. His keen mind was able to grasp the battlefield dynamics and subtleties of gunpowder and shot, and its impact upon armour. He continued his services to the Moravian state, improving our military and adapting new tactics as long as he was alive. The reason Moravia has an up-to-date army these days, is due in no small part to the efforts of Ivan Žerotínov.

    ‘But it is to Our shame, that the Moravians have not always appreciated the Russians’ contributions to Our realm, as substantial as they are. Indeed, even Ivan Olegovič himself came under suspicion for his Carpathian ties during our late war with that Empire. He was very nearly taken for a traitor. But he called in his favours with his fellow opriški, and provided the Moravian crown with a line of intelligence that led us to a swifter victory, and likely saved many of our young men from death.

    ‘Come forth, Paraskeva Ivanovná Žerotínová! Accept, from Our hands, this honour for your noble father’s many and selfless services to Our realm: the Order of Saint Adalbert, deserved many times over and far too long unjustly delayed.’

    With this, a slender, narrow-faced woman of middle years stepped forward out of the assemblage in the bailey, and approached the young King. There were tears of gratitude and happy remembrance in her eyes, and with a watery smile she lowered her neck before him and received around her neck the heavy gold medal and the ribbon of Saint Adalbert which should have been given to her father many years ago. She stepped gravely several steps back into the crowd as the King continued his address.

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    ‘In light of this history, We find it utterly intolerable that many of us still continue to regard the Carpatho-Russians as lesser subjects, when in fact they have proven by their bravery and loyalty to the realm that they are worthy of Our consideration as a people with the full rights and privileges enjoyed by Moravians, Silesians, Bohemians and Nitrans. We propose, with this bill presented to the Zhromaždenie in the name of Ivan Žerotínov: that a philological commission be assembled for the study and standardisation of the Rusiňsk language; that all Crown documents shall be published and promulgated in this speech as well as in the Slovak and Czech languages; that parochial schools in Podkarpatská shall provide instruction for Carpatho-Russian youth in their own language; and that appointments to military and civil service posts shall be made without prejudice or distinction to place of origin within the borders of the Our realm!’

    The Ivan Žerotínov Act passed the Stavovské Zhromaždenie two weeks afterward. The vote was not unanimous—indeed, it was far closer than Kráľ Prokop would have liked, and it took a great deal more bargaining and favour-exchanging than he first thought it might. But at last, the Carpatho-Russian people were on an equal footing with the other members of the Moravian realm.

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    ~~~

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    Unfortunately, the Kráľ didn’t have to deal only with a reticent Zhromaždenie. He had to deal with the fact that Bayern had once again declared war upon Nordgau just on the western border—Germans were warring upon Germans once again, and the East Frankish king licking his chops the whole time. And he also had to deal with another pretender’s uprising—this time, it was the old Regent’s nephew Cyril Stibor, whose main estate was in Spiš. The elderly Boleslav did not support his nephew’s uprising—indeed, he sent his own zbrojnošov to Olomouc to aid the king in putting Cyril’s rebellion down.

    Once again the Moravian army was called up from Olomouc and Bratislava, and the division led by Kaloján z Boskovic once again took the foremost position. Unfortunately, Boskovic had to make his assault across the Váh, placing him in a squeeze. Cyril Stibor had the benefit of position for his troops, and used it. Once again the time-honoured tactic of catching the opposing army in a pincer with reinforcements coming in on the flank proved to be a costly one: nearly a third of Boskovic’s troops were killed or fled—and it was left to the reinforcements from Bratislava to demolish the remainder late in February of 7002 by the old calendar, 1493 by the Western one.

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    When Cyril Stibor was brought back to Olomouc in irons, Kráľ Prokop was briefly tempted to have him destroyed by the same excruciating methods that Ján Zajič had been. However—particularly after pleas for clemency not only from the Church but also from Cyril’s uncle—Prokop was moved to commute the rebel’s sentence to mere imprisonment. In truth, although Prokop was bold and energetic of personality, he wasn’t resentful, nor was he even particularly vicious. He found that he didn’t quite have the heart to put to death a man who was wholly within his power and at his mercy.

    It was at the beginning of the following year when the Veliky Knyaz Lev 2. of Great Rus’ once again called upon the Moravians for their martial aid. This time, Rus’ was under attack from within. They were facing an uprising centred on the town of Černigov, but which involved provinces scattered throughout the Ruthenian kingdom. Moreover, it was soon clear that Černigov was not acting on its own initiative, but was being supported by the Carpathian Empire as well as by Thessaly. Prokop was honour-bound to join, not only on behalf of a faithful ally, but also on account of his Northeast Initiatives which had been so carefully placed.

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    Act I Chapter Eleven
  • ELEVEN.
    Detvansk‎ý and Khovanský (Again)
    1 November 1493 – 14 February 1498

    Kráľ Prokop was an astute enough commander to see to it that the third Ruthenian-Carpathian War was all but resolved within the first few months, though unfortunately the war would drag out for over four years after that. Bedřich Pospisil understood that the Carpathian armies were numerous, but that they were only as good, ultimately, as their commander—and so he advised the king (against the king’s rather forthright nature) to play an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse across the Štúrovo Bridge.

    The first task: to take an easy enemy target with their cavalry. Then: to allow the cavalry to be taken—in order to move the opposing army into a vulnerable position. And finally: to move in with the main army and isolate and capture the Carpathian commander. Prokop executed everything as Pospisil told him to, and was able to draw out the Carpathian general Vasil Nahimov over the course of three engagements. By making a quick sortie against his artillery and then falling back from the resulting cavalry charge, at last Boskovic moved in with the Army of Bratislava. Boskovic captured Nahimov at that battle, and had him sent back to Olomouc to cool his heels for the rest of the war.

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    From that point, the Moravian armies began methodically, progressively occupying Carpathian territories from west to east, beginning with the Viedenský Les and moving across Pannonia to Pest. Kráľ Prokop, clearly taking after his ancestor Róbert, rode out himself at the head of the Army of Olomouc, and personally oversaw the siege of Pest. Pest fell on Christmas Eve of the year 7004 (1494 in the Western reckoning), after just under a year of siege, and the entire western half of Carpathia fell with it.

    Such is the nature of war, however, that setbacks, reversals of fortune and disasters can occur without warning, upsetting even the most careful of plans.

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    It was well into the springtime after the siege of Pest, that Prokop received a message from Bratislava that peasants from Austria had come pouring across the border and had begun laying siege to the town. The Kráľ had not been anticipating such a rearguard action, but Bratislava was a strategically important town and he couldn’t risk losing it as a bridge between the western and southern fronts of the war.

    The delay, however, was costly. Although the Moravians were now free to lay siege to Békés and Bihar, which they did as soon as they were able, the King, as key general, was busy handling actions against popular uprisings originating in Austria which threatened to unravel what gains they had made. And the Mediterranean and Black Sea allies of Carpathia didn’t have the capacity to hold out for long wars of attrition the way that Moravia did. Time was not something that the Moravians had in abundance.

    ~~~
    ‘Another one of those!’ cried the Queen in affront as she saw what Father Vyebor z Kunštátu was holding. ‘I hope you’re about to chuck it into the fire. I can’t believe those things are still being spread around.’

    Vyšebor lifted the pamphlet he was holding and blew out a bemused breath. ‘Well, I can’t say as I agree with the contents. Unfortunately, apart from chucking them one by one there isn’t much we can do.’

    ‘What can you be speaking of?’ Queen Helene asked, with a quaver of affront in her voice. ‘What do you mean, that the Church cannot step in? These pamphlets are—I tell you, these ideas, they’re obscene—!’

    ‘I know,’ sighed Father Vyšebor. ‘I feel the same way you do, but there is only so much that the Church can do to confront these… “free-thinkers”. This war between Orthodox brother-nations—between Ruthenia and Carpathia—has severely undermined our authority. The King’s recent decision to place lay clerks in the metropolitan offices, and some rather… indiscreet finical decisions made by the bishops… have both rather added to the crisis of confidence. We are still the Body of Christ, but…’

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    Helene sighed, placing one hand on her forehead in exasperation. ‘Well. I was not a supporter of my husband’s decision about the lay clerks, I hope you understand.’

    ‘Your Majesty is rightly guided,’ Father Vyšebor bowed.

    Helene changed the subject. ‘I hear you’re going to Bratislava—in fact, that’s the main reason why I sought you out. Have you received any orders yet from the kancelár?’

    ‘Not yet,’ said Vyšebor, ‘but to tell you the truth, it is only a matter of time.’

    ‘Where do you expect you’re bound from there?’ asked the queen.

    ‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ Vyšebor shrugged. ‘I could well be headed for Pomerania to establish an alternate northward sea route… or equally so, I could be headed to Bavaria to negotiate the border disputes. Or possibly to Austria to bolster our espionage operations. One good thing about this expansion of the diplomatic corps is that it gives the state some options. And I hesitate to say it myself, as a son of the Church, but I do think we owe this new flexibility partly to the spread of these new ideas.’

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    ‘God forbid,’ Helene crossed herself and shuddered.

    ‘It’s a trade-off,’ said the priest. Vyšebor z Kunštátu might be a clergyman, but he had a certain urbanity that well-suited his diplomatic career… and put the strait-laced Helene rather ill at ease. ‘Pretty much all of the smart young men coming up through the chancellery like to frequent the tea-houses here in the capital, and a solid majority of them have received a secular education through private tutoring.’

    ‘It would be better if they stuck to the faith that their fathers and mothers believed,’ Helene muttered.

    Vyšebor gave an eloquent gesture.

    Helene thrust a letter into the priest’s hands. ‘For my husband,’ she told him. ‘I know it’s hard to get an epistle to an army on the march, but it’ll be easier to send from where you’re going. Would you see that it gets to him?’

    ‘I will endeavor my best,’ the priest answered her.

    ~~~
    Prokop shook his head and chuckled as he read through the letter once more.

    ‘Milord?’ asked Bedřich Pospisil.

    ‘Oh, Helene tells me Jozef is making good progress in his studies, but that she wishes he would get out and play and run a bit more. Seems our eldest is a bit of a prevaricator—likes to get others to do chores so he doesn’t have to.’

    ‘A good king should know how to delegate,’ Pospisil inclined his head diplomatically.

    ‘She also says Jakub, Anna and little Magdaléna are all doing well, though Anna’s a bit of a fussy eater these days,’ Prokop scanned the letter. ‘She also wants me, when I return from the war, to do something about the tea-house pamphlets that are satirising the Church, since the Church itself won’t move to punish the pamphleteers.’

    ‘Your wife shouldn’t take such interest in state affairs,’ Bedřich shook his head.

    ‘She’s earned it,’ Prokop regarded the letter fondly. ‘Over and over. As well you know.’ It was a long-standing argument between king and maršal, one in which the king was not likely to be swayed—and the maršal knew it well, though it didn’t stop him from disapproving of the influence that Helene enjoyed in Prokop’s court.

    ‘O Kráľ,’ hailed the officer of the watch, ‘the advance scouts of the Austrian noble rebels have been spotted!’

    ‘Break camp,’ ordered the king, ‘and tell the men to gear up and get into the saddle. Roll the húfnice into position and load them!’

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    Prokop carefully folded his wife’s letter and placed it next to his chest as he moved into position to oversee the preparations for battle. The camp was situated by Hardek, and had easy access to a promontory, where they had a tactical advantage over anyone approaching from the Thayatal. The disgruntled Austrian noble banners hove into view. The men at the húfnice looked toward the king, and he gave a stiff nod.

    Thunder cracked on that clear day from the top of the Thayatal, and smoke rose into the sky from the mouths of the Moravian húfnice. Volleys of heavy Moravian lead and explosives rained down with deadly effect upon the Austrians. A downhill infantry charge from the camp, combined with the heavy artillery fire, wreaked havoc on the Austrian rebel cavalry, and sent their whole formation into confusion. Prokop left the field of battle that day victorious.

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    The slow march eastward across the Birodalma continued, with Békés falling and then Bihar. Unfortunately, word reached Prokop that the Epirotes and the Pontic Greeks had accepted peace and agreed to pay fines, even cede certain territories to the Thessalians, rather than be overrun. However, the early gains that Prokop had made had given heart to the Ruthenians when it mattered most… and the Rus’ managed to score several fine victories against Thessaly and stave off an outright defeat.

    The troops of Thessaly, under the command of Maurikios Argyros, landed in the Balkans and marched northward to meet the Moravians. The Thessalian army was in very nearly every way equal to the Moravian, with the same number of infantry and even more artillery. However, the Moravian zbrojnoši and riders did still have a small advantage—as a result, Prokop chose to make his stand in the plain between the two mountain ranges… close to the recently captured town of Békés.

    With Kaloján z Boskovic commanding the Second Army and the Kráľ commanding the Third, the Moravian forces aligned themselves in a standard line on the battlefield, while Maurikios Argyros fielded his men in a deep column with the hope of driving through a weak spot in the Moravian line and dividing the Second Army from the Third. Unfortunately for Argyros, Kráľ Prokop understood his tactics at once he began fielding his men, and he sent his cavalry into action around either side.

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    The men of Thessaly were quickly flanked by the Moravian horsemen. The wedge foundered on the Moravian line of pikes, and the Thessalian infantry were rendered sitting ducks for the húfnice and the lateral cavalry charges.

    Argyros beat the retreat, and in the end the battle wasn’t too costly to the Thessalonians in terms of manpower. However, the defeat of Thessaly at the hands of Moravia was humiliating, and Carpathia had not been liberated as quickly as hoped, with Moravia still holding onto the vast majority of the Birodalma’s land.

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    One thing which the battle at Békés had shown, was that the various divisions from the various regions of Moravia—the Silesian horsemen, for example, or the húfnice operators from Budějovice—had more than proven their mettle. In fact, the esprit de corps of the local divisions had been key to winning the battle, as the Silesians had made use of hand-signals rather than the standard vanes in the order of battle in order to coordinate their charges. With the Silesian and Czech cultures having been vindicated at Békés, just indeed as the Rus’ of Maramoroš had been vindicated with the Ivan Žerotínov Act, Moravia could indeed be said to be a country of many customs. And Prokop was more than happy to give those customs the recognition and respect they deserved.

    The ancient rights and privileges and customs of Moravia Proper, as well, began to be a topic of discussion. The Jihlava Decrees of Bohodar letopisár, issued in the twelfth century, became a touchstone for this topic, as did the elder Zhromaždenie that was established under the same king. Of course, the overlordship of Moravia Proper was a prerogative of the kings of Great Moravia since the tenth century, but the Moravian patrimony did also have its own local flavour, and the people of the Morava Valley began to take a deeper pride in it.

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    After the Battle of Békés, the war between Ruthenia and Carpathia ended with a Ruthenian victory. Černigov was again reduced to a state of vassalage with a much reduced sovereign territory, and Mozyř again became a crown territory of the Ruthenian Veliky Knyaz. No further concessions were extracted from the Birodalma, but it was once again greatly weakened, and it wouldn’t be long before Carpathia was again in the throes of a succession crisis.

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    Act I Chapter Twelve
  • Well, @Von Acturus, it's been known to happen upon occasion! I don't think Father Vyšebor is a typical priest, though. Certainly not if he's also a diplomat! And yes, Ruthenia will be solidly inside the Moravian sphere of influence soon... in a sense. Sadly it won't stay there.


    TWELVE.
    Consolidation
    7 March 1499 – 24 December 1502


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    Moving up in the world...

    ‘Father,’ Jozef begged, ‘Cousin Svätopluk is here. Can we go and play with him?’

    Prokop smiled indulgently. ‘Of course,’ he told Jozef. ‘Only be careful—we don’t want another incident in the church like last time.’

    Jozef grinned, then he sped off together with Jakub to join their cousin. Prokop chuckled. Svätopluk Rychnovský, the Budyšín-born son of Prokop’s uncle Vyšebor Rychnovský and his wife Perchta, was a blue-eyed imp with a particular knack for getting into scrapes and then talking his way out of them. He was two years younger than Jozef and one year younger than Jakub, but the three of them got along remarkably well. Unfortunately, as last year’s incident in the church had proven, Svätopluk had a worrying sacrilegious streak… but he had also a sporting sense of fair play that endeared him to both of his cousins.

    More to the point from Prokop’s perspective, Svätopluk’s arrival meant that his maternal uncle Hrabiše Obroditen was in town—and they had some rather important business to discuss.

    ‘It really is good to see you,’ the Sorb rumbled as he grasped the Moravian king’s hand. ‘Drježdźany thanks you for the guarantees that Moravia has made these past years… they’re the only reason why Father isn’t bowing the knee to a Frankish overlord.’

    ‘Our interests there are mutual,’ Prokop assured Hrabiše warmly. ‘How is Jaromir these days?’

    ‘He is rather feeling his age,’ Hrabiše said with a slight hint of worry. ‘And given the recent renewed unpleasantness between Nordgau and Bayern, I know his mind would be greatly put at ease if certain… formalities could be observed before he passes on.’

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    Prokop patted Hrabiše comfortingly on the elbow. ‘Well. In that case, let’s drink to your father’s health, and to his ease of mind.’

    ‘And to friendship,’ Hrabiše boomed, putting his arm around Prokop. ‘And to faith.’

    ‘Sounds like a promising start,’ Prokop grinned. ‘I’ve got several barrels of exquisite lager in the cellar with your name on them, my friend—one of the perks of being married to a Budějovice woman…’

    ‘Not the only perk, I’m sure,’ the Sorb chortled. He wasn’t wrong there.

    There the two of you are,’ Queen Helene exclaimed as she rounded the corner—almost as though summoned at the mention of her. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I saw our sons gallivanting off to town with Svätopluk and knew that you two wouldn’t be long in meeting. You weren’t planning on sneaking off to the cellars before signing the treaty!’

    ‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Hrabiše.

    ‘Business before pleasure,’ Prokop said virtuously.

    ‘Is that so?’ the queen gave a delicate harrumph, her eyes twinkling naughtily. ‘Well. I know I shouldn’t have to tell you this about your own castle, my love, but the audience chamber is… that way.’

    There was nothing for it. Prokop and Hrabiše’s own revelry would have to wait until the main business was concluded. Queen Helene accompanied the two men in the king’s private audience chamber where two large sheets of parchment were awaiting them. The treaties, which had been written up by monks from both Zhorelec and Litoměřice, were already in ink upon parchment awaiting the signatures of their primaries. Prokop had been waiting for Hrabiše Obroditen to arrive before putting quill and ink to the treaties, and wanted to make sure that his signature was fairly witnessed to both. The full military alliance between Drježdźany and Moravia was now signed and sealed.

    ‘Now that we have an alliance secured,’ Helene changed the subject—though the naughty twinkle wasn’t quite gone from her eyes, ‘I believe you had a proposal that you wanted to make to the Stavovské Zhromaždenie at the upcoming session. Have you worked through all the details?’

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    ‘Yes,’ Prokop nodded, stroking his sandy-brown goatee. ‘I plan to propose that the administrative offices are open not only to the prominent noble families of the realm, but also to commoners who have acquired sufficient education and demonstrated the necessary excellences of character. I’ve worked through the process and standards for the civil service with the Chancellery and the office of the Šafár, and both of them support the proposal as it stands.’

    ‘Good,’ Helene nodded, laying a hand on her husband’s chest. ‘I don’t think a lot of noble families in Moravia will be too happy with this reform, but it’s a wise idea to ensure that the reins of government are held by the virtuous and thoughtful rather than merely by the sons of the powerful… and now you may go along with Hrabiše if you wish. I know I couldn’t keep the two of you beer-moths out of the cellars if I tried. Just don’t get too drunk. I want you able to… perform tonight.’

    She needn’t have worried. He was.

    Helene and Prokop made for a rather interesting couple. The contrasts were stark. Being fifteen years his elder, a serving-woman to a former generation of Rychnovských, hand-selected for her virtuous traits, Queen Helene was of a much more stolid, conventional and conservative temperament than her husband. Prokop, by contrast, was bold. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. He lived for the daring strike, the grand gesture. And he was sympathetic, far more so than his wife was, to new ideas and new methods. Certain among the nobles might have expected such a marriage to run aground or founder, but the two of them not only understood each other well in spite of their disagreements, but found that their occasional differences of opinion added a certain spice to their lives. Prokop couldn’t have chosen a more loyal helpmeet than Helene, and Helene had long ago found that her husband would never leave her bored.

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    The monarch had thus endeavoured with considerable success, into fashioning Moravia into a powerful, centralised autocracy. Having curbed the more outrageous noble privileges and gathered greater powers into the hands of the bureaucracy, the Moravian state was more stable and more forward-looking than many of its neighbours. This move to orient the bureaucracy toward the deserving, even among the commoners, was but the latest of Prokop’s efforts.

    One particular thing that helped—and this was largely owing to Prokop’s love of grand gestures—was his policy of holding sumptuous and elaborate banquets in Olomouc. This provided not only an opportunity for the Moravian army to present itself and intimidate any nobles that might dare object to Prokop’s centralising policies; it also gave the diplomatic corps a ready excuse to flex its muscles and show off Moravia’s splendour to neighbouring realms. Helene did not entirely approve of the lavish expenditure… but she did appreciate the opportunity to display her household in the best possible light.

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    This bureaucratisation came hard upon a movement of people from the countryside into the cities. As Olomouc, Ostrava, Plzeň, Budějovice and Bratislava became wealthier and wealthier, more and more bowers sought to try their luck in urban workshops. Upon the outskirts of these towns, there had grown up vast shanty-towns of such former bowers, rural craftsmen and their families. The traditional craft guilds had complained bitterly to the Crown about the new competition, the lower pricing and lower quality of goods that had resulted.

    And so, Prokop directed the guilds themselves to take charge of organising the newcomers and providing them with decent accommodations. The guilds managed to do this with remarkable effectiveness. In concert with support from the Stavovské Zhromaždenie, the craft guild associations of Olomouc and Ostrava managed to integrate upwards of eighty per cent of the migrants into regular workshops under guild supervision. The effects were seen nearly at once upon the state’s coffers, which were soon overflowing with silver and gold on account of the surplus.

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    Kráľ Prokop Posmrtný proved to be a popular monarch among the Moravian commons. In the wake of the rebellions of Ján Zajič, Cyril Stibor and the lords of Lake Tuoppajärvi, Prokop ruled with a firm hand and strong laws, which he used to keep prices low and rein in the excesses of the nobles. Although he ruled as an autocrat, his policies made him a friend in the eyes of both the bowers and to the townsfolk. And he was particularly beloved among the Carpatho-Russian minority of Podkarpatská and Maramoroš on account of the laws he had passed which made all government proclamations and services available in their own language as well as standard Moravian and the Bohemian dialect.

    Prokop was popular among the military as well, being a fair-minded general, not afraid to place himself in the line of fire and direct troops from the front, similar to Kaloján or Róbert. Prokop was also a bold fighter and possessed of considerable personal prowess in arms. It helped further that he had a keen eye for talent and was more than willing to welcome it from any quarter: the unconventional career of Ivan Žerotínov had taught him that talent could indeed come from anywhere.

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    And so: (usually common-born) mercenary captains, soldiers-for-hire, and even former brigands were allowed a chance at command within the Moravian Army—provided they cleaned up their acts and showed themselves willing to obey orders and respect their subordinates. Several such stratiotes, as these mercenaries were called after the Carpathian usage, rose to considerable rank and prestige under Kráľ Prokop.

    The winds of reform were reaching even into the Church. First of all, a certain bishop in Nový Sadec named Maksim, who had been a simple, soft-spoken and pious monk in one of Sadec’s small monastic houses, began studying the Liturgical forms that were being used in Jerusalem, in Antioch and in Alexandria. Upon seeing that a number of irregular uses had crept into the Old Moravian Liturgy through the centuries, Maksim began authoring a new Moravian Liturgy in a more contemporary language, that conformed more closely to the Greek Liturgical types that were present in those great historical sees. Although his Queen was sceptical, Prokop enthusiastically lent his endorsement to this project.

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    A small segment of the monastic fathers, inspired by the ideas of clergymen such as the last century’s Bohemian scholar Ján Hus and the Russian abbot Nil Sorskij, began advocating that the monasteries divest themselves of their large landholdings and return themselves to the business of prayer in a state of holy poverty. Although Prokop readily saw the advantages of helping the monasteries—which did not pay taxes—to divest themselves of property into the hands of noble families who did pay taxes… here he was prevailed upon not to support the reformers. Queen Helene argued passionately from the Church’s traditional view: that in the hands of the monasteries, the benefit of these properties would accrue to the poorest and most vulnerable, who were recipients of the Church’s philanthropy. Appealing thus to his better nature, the Queen was able to forestall this particular Church reform.

    It was in this time, as well, that Prokop approached the painter Pravoslav Komenský, who had been restoring the frescoes in the churches in Olomouc when he was younger, in order to commission a portrait of the royal family in the contemporary style. Komenský, who was trained according to the iconographic rubrics, was slightly loath to take this job.

    ‘I confess I do not entirely approve of the contemporary style,’ Komenský said.

    ‘But you are the most qualified of artists for this task,’ Prokop told him. ‘I give you my word as king, that I would make it well worth your while!’

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    Although the state had to borrow against a significant bank loan for the portrait, it was a worthwhile investment. The portrait that Komenský ended up painting of the royal family, ended up featuring: Prokop standing in a very sharp and smart posture indeed, toward the back in a fur-trimmed cloak and a military tunic; Helene seated wisely and serenely in front of him in an elaborate chapeau and a simple but elegant v-necked court gown with a stiff collar; and young Jozef in hunting-clothes in front of his father, holding his mother’s hand, with a rather mischievous look on his face—looking as though he would rather be doing something other than posing for a painting. This painting of King Prokop and his family still hangs in the palace at Olomouc. Many later critics agreed that, despite it not being Komenský’s preferred style, it was still one of his more impressive works, and gave a strong sense of the personalities of the principals painted.

    In the autumn of 1502, however, there occurred in Olomouc a massive outbreak of ‘English sweat’… a highly virulent and deadly disease that struck at will throughout the city, killing as many as half of the people it infected within a day of infection. Prokop at once called up a team of leeches and doctors to patrol the town, establish quarantines and curfews, and generally treat the outbreak as though it were a military enemy to be combatted. Although this did possibly spare a significant number of lives, it put a tremendous strain upon the state’s resources, and the domestic bureaus found themselves hamstrung for months after the caseload of English sweat had dissipated.

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    Act I Chapter Thirteen
  • THIRTEEN.
    A Branch Takes Root
    5 February 1503 – 1 August 1507

    ‘No, don’t get up just yet. Polévka?’ Prokop handed the bowl to his wife. She breathed in the hearty scent of the hot, creamy vegetable broth inside.

    ‘Thank you,’ Queen Helene said. Lips pursed against the heat, she sampled a couple spoonfuls of her husband’s offering.

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    ‘How do you feel?’ Prokop asked her solicitously.

    ‘Better today. Less pain.’

    ‘And… how is Dobroslava?’

    ‘Sleeping, finally. Thank God.’ Helene crossed herself. There was, however, a trace of worry on her brow.

    Prokop started to open his mouth again, but Helene shot him a sharp glance from her blue-green eyes. ‘No. Don’t start, Kopi. I made a choice with you eighteen years ago, and I haven’t regretted it once. Though… I admit, if you’d told me, a virgin at twenty-nine, that I would be the king’s consort and happily mothering as many children as Queen Bohumila, I’d have said you were barking.’

    This birth had been a difficult one, though. Helene’s pregnancy had been normal, albeit with the usual morning sickness in the first trimester and the usual compulsive cravings in the second. But by the time the third arrived, she was having some rather odd dizzy spells and had to sit for long periods of time. And then when labour had come… she’d spent far longer in it than she’d bargained for, she’d had to be given a calming draught to give birth normally, and her body had taken proportionally longer to recover.

    ‘I suppose age is catching up with me,’ said the 48-year-old queen.

    ‘Nonsense,’ Prokop leaned over his wife, thoughtfully set the bowl of polévka on a side table, and kissed her soundly. Helene answered with as much strength as she presently dared.

    ‘It hasn’t been a walk in the park for you either recently, has it?’ his wife asked. ‘And I don’t mean looking after me.’

    Prokop winced.

    Moravia had enjoyed, under Prokop’s rule, a remarkable—some might even say miraculous—ascent to glory and splendour in Europe. As the natural point of contact between the Catholic West and the Orthodox East, it had plucked freely from both and enjoyed the fruits at leisure. The churchly architecture in Olomouc was a mixture of Frankish-German arches, Greek domes, Russian onion bulbs, and had even imported some influences from strands more exotic. In addition to this, Moravia was defended by state-of-the-art weaponry. The húfnice manufacturers of Queen Helene’s hometown of Budějovice were the most sought-after siege equipment and decisive factor in the line of battle among the kings of the whole continent.

    But with such privilege and refinement—come other, less savoury visitors.

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    Prokop was rather shocked and disquieted to discover that certain of Moravia’s civil servants were regularly on the take, and that basic services that many townsmen relied upon had to be paid for twice over… with the kickbacks largely disappearing into the private residences and strongboxes of the burgher-extracted functionaries. This was certainly not the sort of meritocratic structure that the king had envisioned for Moravia! And yet it was indeed one of the repercussions of his reforms.

    Still worse, to Prokop’s view, the expanded diplomatic corps had allowed certain persons—not one, or two, which might be excusable, but more than several—to rise through the ranks who were clearly not qualified for the posts they held! Prokop had more than once had to journey in person to a foreign court to assuage some statesman or royal that a representative of the Moravian Crown had grievously insulted or neglected. Yet no one within the diplomatic corps was willing to take responsibility, at first, for these failures!

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    And although the nobles had been chastened by Prokop’s centralising statist reforms, in some remote rural sections of his realm they still held sway which bordered on absolute. The King’s justice, in such cases, was highly sought-after. He began to have his doubts after hearing one particularly sordid case in which one of the minor Mojmírovci was abusing his power over his tenants in Nitra in a rather grievous way, involving the virginity of one simple bower’s daughter. Not enjoyable hearing—but if the King could not be appealed to in such cases, where could the wronged turn to for redress?

    Helene ran a hand over her tired husband’s cheek, calling him back to the present—her thumb stroking fondly backwards along the edge of his moustache. He looked into her face. It was rare that he got to see her with her hair down—she normally wore most of it, apart from her framing curls, up in a bun pinned tight to her head. But even though there were streaks of white in with the honey-gold of her long tresses, it was hard to imagine anything to Prokop finer or more resplendent. Helene’s handsome, square-jawed face was of the sort that wore its years with grace—even if the crows’ feet and smile-lines were rather deeper now than they had been when he’d first fallen in love with her.

    ‘There is a happier event for you to look forward to,’ she said to him. ‘I hear that the Margrave of Drježdźany himself has scheduled yet another visit here.’

    ‘Not for several long months,’ Prokop told her. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with my clumsy care for at least that long.’

    Helene gave him a mock grimace that told him her sense of humour was recovering. A good sign.

    Prokop did set to work first on setting up a permanent courthouse in Bratislava. The King did have judges who enforced his justice throughout the kingdom… but perhaps in a place like Bratislava where the noblemen were still effectively a law unto themselves, his judge would require a bit more physical support: lodgings, personal staff, gendarmes. Unfortunately, when he returned to Olomouc from Bratislava, he found his whole household dressed in black.

    Prokop’s fears intensified as his steps quickened on his path to the chapel. It couldn’t be that Helene was gone—it couldn’t be! She was getting better!

    But when he entered the chapel, he saw the unmistakeable, and dearly longed-for, visage of his beloved queen-consort in profile… though she too was clad in black, and her handsome jaw was tipped down toward a tiny coffin which had been placed in the middle. It hadn’t been Helene… it had been their infant daughter Dobroslava who had gone to Christ’s embrace, after a mere handful of months of life. Relief at finding his wife alive, mingled with the fresh grief over the death of a daughter he had met altogether too briefly.

    Helene tipped her head up toward him as she heard him approach. There were no tears—only the puffy red shadow of where tears had been. His wife’s face, however, still bore the pallor of grief and loss. Prokop embraced her without words. Although she grieved the loss of their daughter, Helene did not push Prokop away from her. She curled into his warmth.

    Prokop breathed into her hair. ‘I’ll stay, Helene,’ he told her. ‘I won’t go back to Bratislava. I’ll stay in Olomouc with you. You won’t be alone.’

    Helene nestled more firmly against him. ‘Thank you, husband.’

    Helene’s periods returned. Knowing and feeling the last of her fertility, Queen Helene dealt with her grief by embracing her consort with open arms. She revelled in Prokop’s strong, smooth, vigorous body, and the peak of his sensuous powers as a man. Receiving his kisses and touches made her feel young again. At an intellectual level, knew she was risking still more heartbreak, and perhaps more than that, by trying to conceive a child at fifty. But in her heart of hearts, she was happy beyond measure when she discovered that God had blessed her womb again at her unlikely age.

    ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Prokop. ‘The last one was hard enough for us.’

    ‘What do you mean, “am I sure about this”?’ Helene bristled. ‘I’ve already given birth to nine children by you, and I don’t care what manner of hardships I go through for this one. And don’t tell me you regret it!’

    ‘I don’t! I don’t regret it at all!’ said the king, backtracking on his mistake. ‘I’m concerned for your health. For both of your health.’

    ‘Well… you being here is a start,’ Helene acknowledged. ‘And you can get more soup for me.’

    Prokop was good to his word; he stayed in Olomouc all nine months of his wife’s late-age pregnancy. Even when the heralds came up from Bratislava to tell Prokop that the courthouse and judge’s residence there had been completed on schedule, Prokop told them he would come out to inspect it personally after a period of some months—after both the birth, and Helene’s sitting-days of recovery.

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    Although Helene bore herself, or tried to, with her usual stolid poise, this pregnancy was clearly taking its toll on her. The headaches and dizzy spells returned, as they had for her pregnancy with poor Dobroslava. She also gained quite a bit of weight herself: she began to look remarkably rotund even without the roundness of her waxing womb. She complained about her powers of sight – her vision swam and faded, no doubt adding to her dizziness. And it seemed that she was both intensely thirsty and also constantly over the nočník complaining of the need to pass water.

    ‘Polyuria resulting from irritation of the kidneys,’ the court physician diagnosed. ‘A condition similar to diabetes: not uncommon in older women who conceive. Make sure she gets outside and walks for half an hour at least once a day after passing water. Make sure that she eats more chicken and fish.’

    Helene gagged, and nearly lost her lunch, at hearing this. ‘I hate fish,’ she muttered.

    Prokop held his wife’s hand until her nauseous spell passed, then turned back to the physician. ‘Anything else?’

    ‘More prayers to the Theotokos would never come amiss,’ the physician inclined his head. ‘And personal devotions to her mother Saint Anna, or to Righteous Sarah the wife of Abraham, might not come amiss either. Both of those women too became pregnant in old age.’

    ‘I’m not old,’ Helene grumbled. ‘But I will certainly offer my prayers and venerations to all three.’

    ‘Very good, ma’am,’ the physician bowed.

    Prokop made sure that the physician’s advice was followed, and even accompanied his wife on her walks so that they could take them arm-in-arm. This had the effect of improving Helene’s spirits as well as her health.

    Eventually the day came when young Svätopluk Rychnovský rode into the courtyard, lit down and approached the king and queen on one of their walks.

    ‘God greet you, Ó Kráľ a Kráľovná,’ the brown-haired teenager swept a bow. ‘Have you seen Jozef and Jakub anywhere? They promised to meet me here.’

    ‘Well, first, young man,’ Helene reproved him mildly, ‘I think some proper exchange is due first between us! I hear we are to congratulate you.’

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    Svätopluk swelled proudly. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Yes—Uncle Hrabiše, being without male issue himself, has declared me his heir to the Margraviate of the Drježdźanian Lands. I’d say that my late father married quite well indeed. Of course, they’re probably going to insist I marry a local and sorbify my name to Swjatopołk when I become Margrave.’

    ‘Now, don’t be too churlish on that point,’ Prokop smiled. ‘Your mother was an Obroditen, after all.’

    ‘Oh, don’t think I’m complaining,’ Svätopluk put his hands behind his back in a very complacent manner. ‘There are some uncommonly pretty girls in Budyšín. I imagine as the Margrave’s heir I’d have my pick of the run. And I’m enough used to local peasants trying to stumble all over my name that I wouldn’t care one way or the other what they call me at court.’

    It was at that moment that the two older boys of Prokop and Helene, Josef and Jakub, happened to cross their path. Tall, blond, every bit his father’s heir and certain of it… though with a certain slyness that he seemed to have inherited from neither of his parents, Jozef appeared leading his horse. Jakub, darker of colouration in hair and eye and slenderer of build, was already mounted, and had two handsome-looking hooded falcons perched on a glove with a spare in his hand.

    ‘Hail to the Heir of Budyšín!’ Jozef called out, a shade flippantly. ‘Rád ťa vidím, bratranec!’

    ‘We’ve got a hawk ready for you,’ Jakub added, holding up the spare gauntlet and the two perched birds.

    Svätopluk grinned back. ‘Good to see you two as well, cousins!’

    ‘Just try not to ride into any kirk naves this time,’ Jakub smirked a tad.

    ‘Should I be worried?’ asked Svätopluk of Jozef. ‘Why’s he always the responsible one?’

    As Svätopluk remounted his steed and went off with his cousins, laughing and jibing all the while, Helene gripped her husband’s elbow firmly and leaned on it. ‘Do you think Moravia and Drježdźany will be alright with them in charge?’

    Prokop followed them out of the courtyard with his eyes. ‘If we’ve done our jobs well.’

    Later that April, Helene gave birth to Nadežda. Little ‘Hope’, taking the spot in her heart that Dobroslava had left when she died, came in for a double portion of her mother’s affection and care[1]. This time, both mother and daughter were healthy in the end. Nadežda lived past her first twelvemonth and was ‘out of the woods’ healthwise, though she couldn’t help but be a bit spoiled by the attention she got.


    [1] The children of Prokop and Helene are as follows:

    1.) Jozef, b. 1487;
    2.) Jakub, b. 1488;
    3.) Anna, b. 1491;
    4.) Magdaléna, b. 1493;
    5.) Eustach, b. 1494;
    6.) Predslava, b. 1498;
    7.) Vladimir, b. 1499;
    8.) Lev, b. 1501;
    9.) Dobroslava, b. 1503, d. 1504;
    10.) Nadežda, b. 1505.
     
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    Act I Chapter Fourteen
  • FOURTEEN.
    The Sale of the Thaya
    27 September 1507 – 3 February 1509


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    One persistent problem for Moravia in its dealings with the Carpathian Empire was the latter’s control of the Thaya Valley. As Prokop had seen first-hand in the Third Ruthenian-Carpathian War, that whole area was a strategic headache and a half. It provided Moravia’s foes with easy access to the Morava Valley—to the very heartland of the Crown Lands and the base of Moravia’s strength going back to the days of Bohodar slovoľubec. And so in 1507 Prokop undertook to correct this little problem. Personally.

    Immediately upon declaring war on the Birodalma, Kráľ Prokop sent the First Army of Moravia straight toward Kremža, while he himself led the Third Army to head off the inevitable counterattack on the Moravian East. Sharing a long land border with a longstanding foe meant splitting one’s forces, though Prokop had studied well under the now-deceased Boleslav Stibor. He understood his opponent: the young Bulgarian general Trifon Shuvalov would prefer a quick blow to divide Nitra from Maramoroš, and would attempt first to breach and then hold the fastness at Nové Zámky.

    Prokop rode at the head of the Third Army, and marched them hard. They chased Shuvalov’s forces away from Zámky and into Galicia-Volhynia—where they pinned them down at last near Sandomierz.

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    The battle at Sandomierz was over quickly, in part because of the ferocity of the Moravian attack, but also in part because of the arrival of ten thousand reinforcements coming from Biela Rus’. Prokop had grinned as he’d seen the red banners emblazoned with their white Greek-style cross appear over the hill. It was true: blood did run thicker than water, and Prokop’s own maternal-side White Russian heritage had proven a valuable diplomatic asset before. It was a considerable military asset now.

    In the meantime, of course, the Third Army had been left free to advance into the Viedenský Les, where there lived several large communities of Slovak woodsmen. These forest Slovaks greeted Kráľ Prokop with loud cheers and the sounds of musket-fire in the air, for they had long wished to be ruled by the Moravian king rather than by a Carpathian Emperor who shared neither their tongue nor their ways.

    Once this short edge of the Carpathian territories had been taken, with the enthusiastic blessing of the locals, it had been easy to wrest away control over Lake Balaton—and with Lake Balaton their fell open to the Kráľ’s armies a straight path leading to the crown cities of Pest and, beyond it, Bihar.

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    ~~~

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    On the home front, the artist who had been at court since the earliest days of Prokop’s reign, Pravoslav Komenský, took a grievous fall from a ladder from which he had been adorning his latest fresco, and broken his neck. In this ominous and sudden way passed the best-beloved Moravian artist from the world.

    But the portraitist’s death had not been the only happening in Olomouc in Prokop’s absence. Helene had been left to provide hospitality to a number of new guests—and the deeply religious woman was irked, quite deeply, by some of the hubbub she heard amongst them. Olomouc had long been a hub for various pilgrims west to east. But these newer arrivals had motivations that seemed more amenable to blasphemy than to reverence. New ‘spiritualists’ and enthusiasts of various sorts paraded their mystical musings and assorted baubles from India or Abyssinia or wherever their exotic religious fancies had taken them. Queen Helene redoubled her prayers both for her large brood of children and for her nation as a whole.

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    What was more, the newest notable who had arrived from West Francia was fleeing from rather than toward—and his motives, too, were far from religious.

    Ma reine,’ said the Frenchman as he swept the cap off his head and made a remarkably polite obeisance to the Lady of Moravia, ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Raynaud de Dampierre, hitherto an honest and hardworking shop owner in Paris. I must beg of you, most good and well-favoured lady, to spare a thought and a room for a poor man who has had to endure the most grievous of injustices at home…’

    ‘I see,’ Helene answered him. She took an instant dislike to him. The man looked decidedly shifty, and she didn’t at all like his manners—which, despite being correct and punctilious in each particular, nonetheless had an oily and unctuous feel to them. Chances were that this ‘poor man’ wasn’t in fact so poor at all, and that ‘the most grievous of injustices’ he had to endure probably had some justification. ‘Well, Monsieur de Dampierre, I’m afraid that I cannot make any such decisions on my own power while my husband is away on campaign, so…’

    ‘But, ma reine,’ Raynaud interrupted her. There was a faint trace of panic in his eyes before he composed himself and went on: ‘s’il vous plaît, if you would but hear me out! I cannot bring myself to believe that a lady as well-respected as yourself would have it outside of her power to do me this favour. And I would make it worth your while! I bring knowledge from the French kingdom, knowledge which is as yet unknown here. I would be willing to exchange this knowledge for room and board here, even if for only a few months. Please, reconsider!’

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    Helene did reconsider.

    She didn’t doubt that Raynaud de Dampierre did, in fact, have the knowledge he claimed to. But that he was willing to sell her the secrets of his own nation, in exchange for keeping his hide intact, still repulsed Helene’s own honourable impulses in the strongest possible way. However, perhaps her husband would think differently. At length, narrowing her eyes at the delinquent French shopkeeper, she said:

    ‘You may bide here for a fortnight. I shall send a missive to the Kráľ, to confer upon what is to be done with you. That is the most I can, or am willing, to do for you.’

    Raynaud bowed. ‘Ma reine is gracious.’

    ~~~

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    The missive reached Prokop in early October of 1508. The Moravian army had swept with relative ease across the Pannonian plains over the past year after that first string of deciding battles against Trifon Shuvalov… but now the difficulties of the long campaign were setting in.

    Specifically: the fall weather was coming in earlier than expected this year around Bihar, with chilly winds blowing in off of the Carpathian Mountains, turning the normally-pleasant conditions of the Transylvanian forestland unpleasantly nippy. And the Kráľ found to his displeasure that the uniforms that his army had been provided were of decidedly poor quality. The woollens that had been packed were moth-eaten, and the linens were threadbare. His soldiers, already in a state of siege around the last main Carpathian fastness, began to shiver and grumble, and huddle around the fires in front of their tents. This was no fit way to provision an army! But the logistics sergeants and quartermasters all stubbornly refused to take responsibility or assign blame for the shabby state of his army’s attire. And in the meantime, as the rains came, his soldiers began to burn up with fevers, coughs and headaches. It seemed only a matter of time before the Kráľ became ill as well.

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    ‘Milord?’

    ‘What is it?’ snapped Prokop irritably.

    ‘A letter for you, from the Kráľovná,’ the hapless watch officer handed the envelope to the king.

    ‘Thank you,’ said the king, a bit chastened and calmed. He missed Helene deeply, and any word from her would be welcome, even in this wretched cold.

    He opened the letter and perused it. His features softened as he did so, and one corner of the mouth beneath his immaculate moustache bent upward in a half-smile. He spoke to the letter as though speaking to his wife directly.

    ‘Oh, dear Helene. Yes, I can see why such a man would be irksome to you. But even turncoats have their uses, however much we may despise them. Temporary room and board, I think, in exchange for what he knows.’

    Blessedly, the ill weather and general gloom had been taking their toll on Bihar’s defenders as well as her besiegers. The town ran up the white vane of parley not three weeks after Prokop sent a return message home to his wife. Effectively, the war was over. Carpathia conceded its rule over the Lesný Slovaks to Moravia, as well as the land which had before belonged to Kremža.

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    ~~~​

    Raynaud de Dampierre’s information, though it was indeed unknown to the Moravian lands, was nevertheless of limited practical use. As a merchant and tradesman, he had brought with him the knowledge of the French kingdom’s most advanced ships and their construction: the caraque and the caravelle.

    And Moravia was, of course, landlocked.

    However, Prokop sighed as he pored over the schematics in his study in Olomouc, they might not be entirely useless. He would have the designs sent northward to Julevädno. He had no idea how applicable these designs might be to the Lule Sámi shippers who operated on the Julevädno, but perhaps they could make adjustments so that these ships could be built and made seaworthy in the Gulf of Bothnia.

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    Then there was the small matter of the war loans that Prokop had been forced to take out.

    The Lesný Slovaks lived primarily in several villages in the southern part of the forested area they had conquered from the Carpathians. The area which lay just south of the Dyje—that is, in German, the Thaya—was mostly German-speaking, and they would be just as likely to resent Moravian rule as they had resented Carpathian rule. Prokop formulated a plan that would assist him in repaying the bonds that the government had floated during the war in specie, as well as potentially heading off a troublesome revolt sometime down the line.

    Prokop approached Königin Eufemia Bloch of the new ‘Eastern Kingdom’ or Öster-Reich, which had until recently been the separate Herzogtümer of Tirol and Salzburg. He would sell to her the titles to the German-speaking lands between the Dyje in the north and the Viedenský Les in the south, in exchange for a suitable sum in gold, equal to two hundred and eight denár, while he retained rule over the Slovaks in the Les. He would then put up this gold as a gage to the Moravian mints to revalue the kingdom’s currency, which had suffered from several inflationary ‘clippings’ since the time of Kráľ Ostromír.

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    Eufemia Bloch had received the offer coldly, as she had little affection at all for her ‘heretical’ Slavic northern neighbours. But she wasn’t about to turn down rule over lands which she viewed as being rightly hers in the first place. At the time, this plan made sense. But unfortunately, his irresponsible son Jozef would later, when he became king, take all of the wrong lessons from this transaction.

    In the meanwhile, the Lule Sámi seemed to have taken full advantage of the technical details of ship construction that Raynaud de Dampierre had offered the king. The new ships were plying a regular business now down the gulf, and the next delegation from Julevädno eagerly asked Kráľ Prokop for an additional sum of seed capital for further shipbuilding projects.

    eu4_581a.png

    And then—

    ‘Husband, I implore you,’ Helene came to him one night. ‘I beseech you, as your wife and as your queen, heed what I have to say!’

    Seeing the serious look on her face, Prokop took both her hands in his. ‘I shall always heed what you have to say, dearest one.’

    ‘Please, please…’ Helene begged him, ‘do not place further burdens upon the Holy Church!’

    ‘What made you think—?’

    But Helene shook her head angrily.

    ‘Don’t patronise me, Kopi! I know that you are planning to incorporate Church offices and lands under the Crown, as you think it is your right to do. I’m begging you to stop. The Church, the very Body of Christ—is all that stands between this realm and the gates of hell! Think on the state of your soul! Think on the state of your kingdom’s souls! They follow false teachers and delusions and strange visions, they seek after signs and miracles from foreign lands, in part because they can sense, or because the devils suggest to them, that the Church doesn’t enjoy your full support as king! I am asking you to do as the righteous Emperors Constantine and Justinian did, as your own rightly-guided ancestors Bohodar Slovoľubec and Radomír 4. did! Preserve the authority and good standing of the Church!’

    After this impassioned plea, Prokop couldn’t help but be moved.

    ‘Very well, if it please you,’ Prokop told her, ‘I shall ensure that the Church stays independent and its lands untouched.’

    Helene embraced her husband, and clasped his face in her hands. ‘My love—you give the people spiritual bread this way, and not only the bread of the world.’

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    Act I Chapter Fifteen
  • FIFTEEN.
    Bolts in the Baltic
    28 February 1509 – 18 March 1513


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    On the last day of February in 1509, Pomerania declared war against Sweden, in an attempt to regain some of its lost territory. ‘Sweden’, it must be understood, no longer referred only to the area which had been inhabited by the tribe of the Svíar in late antiquity—no, the Swedish state now also occupied the southern coast of the Baltic Sea. However, the cultural and linguistic character of the place was very much so Norse-derived. ‘Pomerania’, on the other hand, was a mishmash of Greek and West Slavic elements which combined Byzantine governance and titles with a loose sort of noble democracy.

    Pomerania was also counting on Moravian backing against Sweden, despite the rather patchy history Moravia shared with its northern neighbour. Moravia still hadn’t forgotten when Pomerania had made a bid for the crown and killed the crown prince, the eldest son of Kaloján chrabrý!

    ‘Sire,’ advised Bedřich Pospisil, ‘understand what this means for Moravia! Before, your lordly great-grandfather needed to make a careful house of cards of diplomatic alliances in order to secure a northward route to the sea. Now, you need only make one! If we help Pomerania to retake even one of its lost territories from Sweden, we will have a secure route north to the sea, requiring the maintenance of only one alliance!’

    Prokop nodded. ‘It does seem like a golden opportunity to advance our severnípolitika.’

    ‘Such that it would be folly not to grasp it,’ intoned Bedřich seriously.

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    ~~~​

    Kráľ Prokop led the Moravian armies out into the field that March. He moved on the province of Ermland, where for resistance he met only a single Swedish regiment of foot soldiers who had been but recently trained. It was less of a battle and more of a round-up; the Swedes were simply instructed to turn over their weapons at the Moravian camp and then return peaceably to their homes.

    Along the Baltic coast at least, the Swedes similarly offered little resistance. By the end of October that year, the Moravian forces in conjunction with their Pomeranian allies had captured not only Ermland but also Dobrin, Königsberg, Ortelsburg, Kulm and Marienburg. Once they were firmly within his grasp Prokop happily turned all of these towns over to Pomeranian control.

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    Despite her husband being away on campaign, Queen Helene was dealing with far more interesting happenings on the home front.

    The clerical faction in the Stavovské Zhromaždenie had recently succeeded in pushing for an expansion to the tax base in the Ore Mountains on the border with East Francia. This was necessary, they had argued, as a defence against the machinations of the West and the military build-up along the East Frankish border. However, another source of conflict soon arose, this time between the clerics and the nobility. It was, in fact, the classic conflict between secular landholders and monastic ones.

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    ‘Those lands were given for the Stauropegial Monastery of Saint Sjätopolk in 1306! Over 350 monks live on those lands now, in their own huts or cells, living on only what their hands can work for. The rights of the monks to live and pray on those lands cannot simply be rescinded any time a Kopčianský sneezes!’ complained Bishop Gerasim of Berehovo, his booming voice resounding in the hall such that not one member of the full Stavovské Zhromaždenie could fail to hear it. But at that, Pavel Kopčianský let out a guffaw.

    ‘The “monks” living on that land are some of the fattest and rosiest-cheeked I’ve seen in all my days,’ the Kopčianský nobleman scoffed. The blond, walrus-moustached East Slovak landowner was far from being scrawny himself—the chin that wagged beneath that smirking lip was double, and he had a thick paunch overhanging his belt. ‘They could stand to be taken down a peg or two. As Nil of Sora said—’

    ‘We’re not in Sora, we’re in Moravia,’ Bishop Gerasim interrupted Pavel Kopčianský. ‘And the teachings of that landless renegade are far from being accepted broadly within the Church. You place yourself at grave risk of your soul with your blatant abrogation of the Church’s time-honoured rights!’

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    Queen Helene was not—to put it mildly—entirely impartial in the matter. The sympathies of her pious soul lay instinctively with the interests of the Church. But she’d been assisting her husband long enough to understand that it was no small matter to antagonise a Mojmírov… even one from a low-ranking cadet branch like the Kopčianských. She had to give at least the impression of impartiality.

    ‘We shall consider the arguments of both sides,’ said Helene, ‘but understand that the purpose of the Crown is not merely to find balances and compromises, but to ensure that justice is done. The claims of both the Church and of Pavel Kopčianský to the questioned holdings shall be duly examined, and I shall reach a decision on behalf of His Majesty within a fortnight. Is there any further business?’

    Those who knew Queen Helene well could already tell from these remarks which side she was going to favour. Upon leaving the Zhromaždenie, Pavel Kopčianský’s brow was decidedly darker, and he was no longer smirking or scoffing at all. And for some time before King Prokop returned, there were some stirrings and whispers of a noble rising among the Mojmírovci of eastern Slovakia—though this would never actually come to pass.

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    Once again the question of state-appointed lay administrators within the Church came up… and it was again roundly rejected. Queen Helene’s determination to put a stop to such practices had not changed one bit.

    Queen Helene’s influence on Prokop had been deep enough, indeed, that the Moravian realm was quickly becoming known under his rule as a religious sanctuary—a haven for the Church and its devout followers in an uncertain world. Long had the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre, a venerable knightly order under long Moravian patronage, protected pilgrims and men of faith along the Jerusalem Road. Moravia was also the land of Saint Dorotea the Great-Martyr as well as Saint Bohumil Lukinič: great confessors of the Orthodox faith who peaceably witnessed to the Lord.

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    ~~~​

    ‘Of course we must keep up our trade with the East Francians and the Austrians,’ said Janek Mansfeld. ‘But it shouldn’t be done at the expense of Moravian crafts and trade goods. By God—look at what Bratislava has done so far! The burgomaster has been levying a two percent duty on imported goods for the past three years on my advice, and earmarking that money for improvements to the town Tržnica. The merchants in Bratislava have never been as prosperous before! They can move greater volume of trade goods in and out now than before they levied the duty.’

    Father Vyšebor z Kunštátu whistled at Janek. ‘That’s drawing nigh on to heresy in some circles,’ he noted lightly. ‘Duties are supposed to drive away trade, not encourage it.’

    Janek Mansfeld laughed. ‘So I have been told often enough to my face. But there’s still enough of the rebel within me to hold to what I can observe. Taxation for taxation’s own sake, merely to fill the coffers of town or crown? Sure, that will strangle trade readily enough. But taxation for the sake of reinvestment… that can be a powerful tool to bring greater prosperity.’

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    ‘Do you think the Queen will listen to you?’ asked Father Vyšebor.

    Janek shrugged. ‘It’s odds-on. About half of the people who hear me think I’m onto something; the other half want to tar and feather me.’

    ‘Well,’ Father Vyšebor sighed. ‘Allow me to wish you luck. I don’t think I’m quite on the side of wanting you tarred and feathered just yet.’

    ‘Give it time,’ Janek laughed again.

    Janek Mansfeld, with his controversial ideas about trade and taxation, was in many ways a sign of the changing times. The Moravian crown had gone on something of an investment spree of late, sponsoring new guild-halls, workshops and farm estates throughout the country. Also, Prokop’s expanded diplomatic corps had given the Crown options when it came to choosing diplomats for specific assignments. The care and caution that the new diplomats had exercised in their posts had come as a definite boon to the state’s foreign relations.

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    Nor was Janek the only courtier present in Olomouc to advance a given objective. A wealthy and prominent Sámi reindeer herder of Tuoppajärvi, Vulle Gáski, had recently arrived in the Moravian capital to present a list of petitions from the Kíllt siida. Vulle Gáski was well-known and well-liked among the Moravian court. Indeed, among the Kíllt Sámi Vulle was respected for his ďoallosan (his ability to build consensus and cooperate with many different parties) and for his seaddji (his ability to extemporise, argue and speak with conviction). His affability and his clever oratory made him adaptable to many situations. Many Moravians who could not pronounce his name had taken to calling him ‘Oleg Jiskra’ (that is to say, ‘Oleg the Quick’): a flattering appellation which he did not object to.

    Vulle was in Olomouc mostly in order to clarify fishing and grazing rights for his people and to affirm the customary self-rule of the Sámi under Moravian suzerainty. But when he appeared in court and sent his colourfully-bordered blue felt cap from his head into his hands, the most urgent question facing the crown was how best to use his manifest talents and the clear respect he commanded among the Kíllt.

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    After hearing out Janek Mansfeld, Queen Helene granted an audience to Vulle Gáski.

    ‘Would you consent,’ she asked him bluntly, ‘to take a position in His Majesty’s cabinet?’

    ‘My Queen,’ Vulle replied smoothly, ‘you flatter me with such an offer. However, my place is together with my people. In such a city as this, I would be at rather a disadvantage.’

    ‘That hasn’t been my general impression,’ Helene answered him. ‘You have been a very capable and effective spokesman for your people here in Olomouc. As an advisor to the King, you would be expected only to provide the same perspective and advice here, to the Zhromaždenie. And you would have the benefit of a position as an officer of the Crown, with all the clout that provides.’

    ‘You would make a fine Sámi, my Queen—if you would grant me the boldness of such a conceit.’

    ‘If you are any indication of Sámi excellences, sir,’ Helene replied, ‘I wouldn’t take the slightest offence.’

    Vulle fiddled a bit with the hem of his blue cap. ‘By your leave, my Queen, would you give me some time to think on your offer? Were it a matter of debate on some issue of public import I should be quick enough to give you an answer. But as it affects me personally…’

    ‘I promise,’ the Queen told him, ‘your herds would be well cared-for. As would your family.’

    In the end, Vulle won his brief amount of breathing space, though he did ultimately accept a position in King Prokop’s cabinet at Queen Helene’s recommendation.

    ~~~

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    The war against Sweden continued with Pomeranian victory after Pomeranian victory. Kráľ Prokop advanced his armies across the Øresund and laid siege to the fortifications at Malmö and Helsingborg, moving up the coast to take Halmstad. Once Prokop had control of these three important port towns, he moved inland—through Växjö and Nybro to Kalmar on the opposite coast.

    Pomerania had all the naval power to speak of. Moravia had command of a tiny Sámi fishing fleet consisting of seven umiak, none of which were battle-ready. In addition, the recent training that Prokop had put his armies through preparing them for battles on land was absolutely useless when it came to preparing for the amphibious warfare and seizure of sea ports he was now engaged in. Prokop bit his nails when it came to fearing a Swedish attack during this part of the campaign—if the Moravian army were surprised during one of these sieges, it would be a disaster.

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    However, no such calamity befell them at Kalmar. The Moravian army proceeded northward up the coast to Stockholm. The taking of Stockholm sealed the Pomeranian victory, and the Swedish king was forced to concede defeat.

    Territorially, Pomerania expanded by nearly double its former size. However, the Pomeranians were unable to provide the single land route to the sea that Bedřich Pospisil had promised. Moravia did not gain anything by this war to their north.

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    Act I Chapter Sixteen
  • SIXTEEN.
    Bážá Ruigi
    2 July 1513 – 6 March 1515

    On account of the rule over Tuoppajärvi by the Kniežatá of Česko, there was in fact a small and close-knit community of ‘city Sámi’ in Prague. Vulle Gáski tried not to spend too much of his time here—he was, after all, a reindeer herder, still deeply attached to the community he’d left. But he found it nigh impossible to keep from spending at least some of his time there.

    After all, it was really only in the Sámi quarter that Vulle could go to speak his own tongue, to see familiar faces, to keep contact with his kin and with his wife’s kin. If his gákti became torn or soiled, for example, and he needed a tailor, he didn’t want to visit a Czech or a Slovak one. He wanted to go to a woman who could thread tin wire through a bone needle by touch, and fasten it into a traditional embroidered pattern quicker than you could spit. You could only go to the Sámi quarter for such services. But all the same, there were things which deeply troubled Vulle about the place.

    He saw first-hand how Czechs treated Sámit. Bohemian townsmen spoke slowly and loudly to Sámit they dealt with, as though they were slow. Bohemian ladies often made a show of waving their hands in front of their faces whenever a Sámi walked by, as though they smelled foul. And if the Sámi in question was hurt by this, they would laugh cruelly. And God help the Sámi who was out by himself at night past curfew. They would be lucky to come home bloodied… if indeed they came home at all.

    Such discrimination was far from the only danger that the Sámit faced in the city. For Sámi who had tasted of nothing stronger than guompa—creamy, light and angelica-infused—living in Prague made it easy to succumb to the unaccustomed temptations. Cheap wine was readily available, as was the worse devil of distilled liquor flavoured with sloe. Drunkenness among the Sámit did little to dispel the cruel and bigoted stereotypes that the Bohemians already held about them. In addition, wine weakened the heart of the Sámi, and made him die early. Sweet foods and pastries were also available to Sámi who could buy them. Many Sámit who lived in the city therefore became fat and fleshy, and unfit for the work they would have been expected to do at home. Such temptations likewise shortened the Sámi life.

    Too many Sámit, driven to despair by the cruel sneers and taunts of their neighbours and the ready lures of alcohol and sugar, found themselves snared by an even worse temptation. The Vltava was right there, running right alongside the Sámi quarter. And occasionally a Sámi soul would be drawn in, only to float to the bank somewhere downriver.

    Still, Vulle did occasionally go to the Sámi quarter and spend time in the Church of Saint Kochan, where he could hear the Liturgy given in his native tongue. It was through this parish that he had become acquainted with a young fellow, Bážá Ruigi, who lived in the Sámi quarter—a youngster of promising talent and drive, as well as an observant character and a sharp mind. Unlikely in the highest degree that this young fellow would succumb to the malaise that so many city Sámi did! He had high ambitions in the Moravian diplomatic corps, and for the purpose of furthering those ambitions, he often went by his Slavic appellation, ‘Bohodar z Rožmberka’.

    On this particular Sunday afternoon, Bážá Ruigi was jubilant. Vulle Gáski found young Bážá at the parish hall. He could barely contain his excitement.

    ‘Vulle! Vulle!’ Bážá cried. ‘I’ve finally done it!’

    ‘Done what?’ asked Vulle Gáski.

    ‘I’ve been promoted! Chief Clerk to the Steward of Moravia.’

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    ‘Chief Clerk to the Steward!’ Vulle raised his eyebrows. Never before had a Sámi held such exalted position in the Moravian exchequer, second only to the Šafár himself. Yet there was the badge of office that Bážá was showing off, and there was the Steward’s seal itself—and the rescript bore Bážá’s adopted Slavic name, plain as day. Clearly the Steward was playing the field and dipping his ladle deep into the Chancellor’s diplomatic talent pool. Vulle laughed and embraced the young man.

    ‘I’m proud of you!’ he said happily, ruffling the young man’s hair. ‘I would only caution you—not to dampen your enthusiasm, but merely to put you on your guard—not all men in Olomouc would welcome a man from among our people in such an exalted position.’

    ‘Pah! That’s all talk,’ said Bážá happily. Vulle clearly needn’t have worried about dampening his enthusiasm! ‘Kráľ Prokop is a great man, who decides these things on a basis of merit and achievement, not on a basis of blood. There is much in the Kráľ that we Sámit can appreciate—he knows as we do that men should be chosen for leadership based on the eloquence of their words and the goodness of their deeds.’

    ‘It’s not well for a Sámi to admire a king,’ the older man shook his head. ‘It’s not our way. Those decisions which affect us, should be made by all of us together, by common agreement—not by the dictates of the wealthy and powerful.’

    ‘So you say,’ Bážá said shrewdly. ‘Yet the herds the Gáski tend back home are not small, and the Gáski reindeer are not known for being ill-fed. And here you are.’

    ‘Yes,’ Vulle agreed, stifling a sigh. ‘Here I am.’

    Not for the first time, the traditional Sámi herdsman thought about doing something as yet unheard-of within the Sámi community north or south, but the need for which seemed to be growing daily. The Sámi who stayed in the city were losing their connexion to the land, to their home. And as a result, they seemed to be losing their vyrr’k—their good habits, their propriety, their respect and reverence for God’s creation. Bážá was by no means the worst example of this. Indeed, the fact that he was here, and doing something worthwhile, told Vulle that he was mostly on the right track. And it was precisely because there was so much good in Bážá Ruigi that Vulle could see, that he found himself needing to write a book on the matter for him, and for other Sámi youngsters like him.

    ~~~​

    Bážá Ruigi, who had been working diligently in the Prague city administration for the past several years before his promotion to the exchequer, got his first taste of political activity at realm level on the second of July, when the Stavovské Zhromaždenie held session in Olomouc to debate and determine the laws.

    Bážá at once found the Zhromaždenie to be far more orderly, but also far more poisoned in the air than a Sámi siida. Even though Sámi orators could go on for hours back and forth, complete with heckling or cheering as the case allowed, it was clear that all who were assembled there would ultimately come to a unanimous agreement with no hard feelings from those holding to a minority view. Here, it was clear that men nursed grudges against each other, and factions vied for power at each other’s expense.

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    The best he could understand it, there were three broad coalitions each attempting to advance a particular agenda. The first one, consisting of Bohemians on the northern march with East Francia, wished to bolster local growth and make a show of a united front against their adversarial neighbours, by building an Orthodox hram in a location not too far from the border. Another coalition, which seemed to be more conservative in temperament than the former, seemed most insistent on the need to balance the budget and to diminish the deficit to the state coffers.

    The third coalition, which seemed to be made up largely of rural landowners from Silesia and Nitra, was the most alarming to Bážá. They were discussing the outright takeover of the Lule Sámi, and the acquisition of their lands! Although he knew that it wasn’t yet his place to speak up, but merely to record and to follow the Steward’s lead, Bážá was still deeply appalled. They were discussing parcelling off the lands along the Luleå, as though no one was living there! As though the fish weren’t swimming through it! As though animals didn’t graze along it, wandering here and there as they needed! Bážá thought it madness and folly, if not a case of demonic possession—he couldn’t bring himself quite to believe it. But here it was, the outright conquest of the Lule Sámi being talked about in the open and met with serious looks, as though the landowners speaking weren’t seriously ill and in need of medical and pastoral guidance!

    Bážá looked to the Kráľ. Surely a fair-minded and great man like him would do something for these sick!

    But the moment passed. The Kráľ said nothing, and did nothing. Bážá was left with a sinking in his breast, as the image of Kráľ Prokop written on his heart began to fray a little.

    On the other hand, Bážá quickly observed that his boss, the Steward, favoured the conservative party which wanted to balance the budget. Emboldened by this observation, Bážá began to work behind the scenes to help further the agenda of the townsfolk, against the nobility who were contemplating this devilish insanity against Bážá’s distant kin. Unfortunately, Bážá’s efforts did not go unnoticed among the nobles. And they quickly inquired into his background and motivations.

    ~~~​

    Events and malice were able to combine after a certain incident in which a pair of Northern Sámi men had been caught red-handed and apprehended in the Sámi quarter of Prague, on a mission of espionage. They had been expelled from the country and forced to return home with empty hands. There was also something of a panic about the potential that Sámi spies had infiltrated the national government. (Never mind that agents of the Moravian government had also been caught spying in the north…) That was when the landowners made their move against Bážá Ruigi.

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    ‘My liege,’ one Nitran nobleman spoke up in the Zhromaždenie later that month, whom Bážá recognised as Mojmír z Veleslavína, ‘it has come to our attention that, even after your wise decision to expel the Sámi spies from Bohemia, there are still Sámi agents among us who are working on behalf of our enemies.’

    ‘Well?’ asked Prokop. ‘If you have names, name them.’

    Bážá Ruigi was thunderstruck when he heard his own name fall from Mojmír z Veleslavína’s lips.

    ‘This “Bohodar z Rožmberka”, as he calls himself, has been assiduously and callously assisting his traitorous countrymen, against Your Majesty’s interests and benign rule. I call for a full investigation of this man, followed by his expulsion from the government!’

    The Kráľ turned toward his Šafár. ‘Well?’

    The Steward stammered for a moment, and then spoke: ‘I… I had no knowledge of this man’s ancestry. This comes as a complete surprise to me.’

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    That’s a lie, Bážá glowered at his employer. I’ve never made any secret of my Sámi ancestry, even if I did adopt a Moravian name for myself! And what’s more, you knew perfectly well of my heritage when you selected me for this position, because I told you of it. He could see now what this Steward was made out of. In order to save his own skin from charges of disloyalty and harbouring spies, he was willing to throw Bážá to the wolves. What’s more—after the king’s behaviour in the previous session of the Zhromaždenie, Bážá no longer had confidence that the king would be just enough to decide in his favour.

    He felt the king’s eyes scrutinise him, evaluate him, size him up. And then the Kráľ spoke once more.

    ‘I will not begin finding fault with my realm’s Sámi subjects, not on the basis of one case in which two men were apprehended in the act. It is my judgement that this Rožmberka should continue in his employment in the Exchequer.’

    ~~~​

    ‘I’m not sure I’m better off than if he’d outright gone and tossed me out,’ Bážá, humbled and disillusioned, confided to Vulle Gáski. ‘No one there trusts me now, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. They judge me because I am Sámi. I think you were right, Vulle. Forgive my thoughtlessness.’

    Vulle shook his head and draped a gentle arm around the younger man’s shoulder. ‘There is nothing to forgive. This is one of those things that each man must learn. Experience can be stern and bitter, but she is the very best and most thorough of teachers.’

    ‘I think I shall return to Prague.’

    Vulle paused a moment. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

    Bážá sighed. ‘I set my aim too high. I shall not be accepted in Olomouc.’

    Vulle chose his next words with great care. ‘I wouldn’t go quite that far just yet. True, we Sámi face difficulties. The more so because this is not our ancestral land, and the ways of the five Slavic nations are not our ways. But I would caution you not to go too wild in fleeing them. Perhaps… take a step or two back from your responsibilities. Do as you must to retain your position, of course, but don’t go out of your way trying to court men’s favour. And then—do what is proper.’

    ‘How will I know what is proper?’ asked Bážá.

    ‘Do not lay too much trust in your own wisdom. Seek help from God and from our Lord Jesus Christ. And remember the teachings of your parents, your grandparents, your elders,’ Vulle told him. ‘Between them, they will not lead you astray.’

    Again when Vulle parted from Bážá, his conscience pricked him. That book needed to be written. And soon. Bážá had run up against difficulties. Thank God Vulle had been able to speak to him before Bážá had let the experience embitter him or drive him to despair. But there would be many more Bážás in the years to come.
     
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    Act I Chapter Seventeen
  • Beautiful portrayal of the struggles of the Sami, who face the twin issues of being a despised minority inside a feudal realm and living through an abrupt transition from a nomadic society to a fully settled one.

    Although, fortunately, the King is a wise man, I dread what could happen to the Sami if the more bigoted and land-hungry lords had their way.

    I think Vulle is right and the Sami way of collective decision making is best. It's interesting to see how such a system is present in many nomadic societies, yet looses ground when societies turn sedentary and more dependent on agriculture.

    It's somewhat unfortunate that primary source material on the traditional lifeways and folkways of the Sámi are fairly scant in English. Online there are a lot of resources, but in terms of books most of what's available is in Norwegian or Finnish. But yes, the Sámi traditions of collective decision-making and rule by consensus are quite attractive to me as well.

    I missed the beginning of this, but I'm following now.

    It looks like relations with the Church will be an issue. Will that affect foreign relations positively or negatively?

    Is Moravia communist in the modern day? The interlude heavily implied that.

    Moravia has defeated their relatives in Galicia, but many enemies remain... notably Carpathia. It's nice to see that the loyalists from the border with that nation were rewarded. It probably helps keep them loyal.

    I enjoyed the interpersonal relations around Prokop. I didn't see the marriage with Helene coming, despite all of the foreshadowing...

    The Reformation has not had a great impact in Moravia. What was its effect on Europe as a whole? Or has it not officially fired as an event yet?

    Poor Sami. Outright discrimination bodes ill for the northern alliance and for the territory on the border in Scandinavia.

    Welcome aboard, @HistoryDude! Great to have you here!

    The Church's involvement so far has been fairly low-level. There are some important events later on involving Church and foreign affairs, but for the moment they're kind of on the back burner.

    Is Moravia communist in the modern day? I tried to leave that slightly ambiguous, though it's clear that Viktor Weissfeld is a (former?) Communist Party apparatchik who has a rather interesting past. I think what should be said is that Moravia went through a communist period in the 20th century. Whether they are still communist is something I haven't really explored yet, and don't want to paint myself into a corner with before I play through the Vicky 3 gameplay (which I haven't done yet).

    Prokop and Helene were surprisingly functional as a couple. Not everyone can be so lucky!

    The Reformation event hasn't triggered yet, and won't for some time in this game.

    And yes, the unfortunate position of the Sámi is going to cause some rather troubled times for them in the near future.


    SEVENTEEN.
    Northern Expansion
    24 March 1515 – 1 April 1519


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    Although not as glamourous or charismatic as his forebears Kaloján and Róbert, Prokop Posmrtný was broadly considered by historians to have been one of Moravia’s most dynamic, successful and effective kings. Under his and Bedřich Pospisil’s careful watch, the Moravian military had become one of Europe’s most formidable, most modern, most disciplined and best-equipped forces, a true power on the continent. In addition, the last years of Prokop’s rule saw Moravia’s civil wealth expand by leaps and bounds. He poured that wealth back into the development of Olomouc. Olomouc flourished under his rule into a centre of fine Central European art and architecture; the slums on the outskirts were incorporated and updated into more respectable working-class housing; and the tax code within the city was streamlined for greater transparency and efficiency.

    In short, Moravia’s star was still firmly on the rise.

    However, Moravia’s internal development and growth of wealth sparked an increased degree of interest among the Moravian nobility and clergy in the ‘Severná otázka’—that is to say, the question of the conflicts between the independent Sámi tribes to the north, and the continued political divide between the Lule Sámi (still more or less an independent people) and the Kíllt Sámi (who were more or less direct subjects of the Moravian Crown).

    To his credit among later historians (and certainly among Sámi historians!), Prokop himself never took a firm stance on the ‘Northern Question’. He was for the most part content to allow the status quo to continue. He expressed no objections to the continued independence of the Lule Sámi. However, like most politically-minded men in early sixteenth-century Moravia, he took an increasing degree of interest in Sámi affairs in his later years.

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    The decisive factor that opened up Moravian severnípolitika once again was Pomerania’s declaration of war on the Lotharing Kingdom in April of 1516. Moravia did not become directly involved in the war, but it couldn’t be said they weren’t interested in the outcome! If their allies succeeded in taking even one Polish province from the Franks, it would mean a single direct route to the sea for Moravia.

    This possibility had occurred to numerous other states than just Moravia. The manoeuvre of the Pomeranians in central Poland attracted the attention of Garderike and also of the minor Rus’ principality of Vladimir. Garderike, upon seeing the potential for a Moravian maritime action to split its Scandinavian holdings via the Baltic, at once moved to conquer Bjarmaland to the east, in an attempt to encircle Tuoppajärvi from the south. And Vladimir at once began sending covert agents into Moravia through its diplomatic channels. The spy ring set up by Vladimir would come to be a major headache for Moravia’s spymasters for several decades.

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    Within Moravia, the war between Pomerania and Lotharingia spurred a heavy flurry of action on the part of the civil service as well as the military. The Spieß and shot formations among the infantry had prompted a rather thoroughgoing reassessment of the role of the traditional družinnik in the Moravian military. Instead of having heavily-armoured knights, the Moravians adopted a Schwarze Reiter style cavalry armoured with cuirasses and helms and armed with pistols as well as swords, placed on smaller and more manoeuvrable mounts. As well as improving the performance of cavalry units in the field, this innovation also made the resulting cavalry units much easier to accommodate on seafaring vessels, when compared to the heavy armour and massive amounts of feed needed to ship the much larger destrier horses to and fro.

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    Also, after a thoroughgoing overhaul of the Moravian diplomatic corps, said diplomats also adopted a much more flexible range of legal tactics when it came to approaching and negotiating peace treaties. This was a necessity, it was felt, when it came to the Severná otázka. Moravia would not be fighting or defending for herself, her own lands, her own honours—at least, there was not yet that potential to be searched. Instead, Moravia would be negotiating on behalf of its clients among the Lule and Kíllt Sámi.

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    And finally, there was a considerable amount of thought put into agricultural production. Resuming shipments of men and equipment across the Baltic meant a greater need for grain. And a greater need for grain encouraged the adoption of certain more efficient techniques for harvesting it. The Moravian bowers and serfs by this time were given long-handled scythes to use instead of the much-shorter hand sickles—this considerably reduced the amount of time needed to bring in harvests, and reduced the degree of waste.

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    And then, at long last—

    ‘They’ve done it,’ Helene told her husband triumphantly upon receiving the letter from Pomerania.

    ‘They haven’t!’ Prokop could scarcely believe his eyes. But there it was, plain as day.

    ‘Dervan Anchabadze-Vskhoveli has some rather impressive gumption,’ Helene half-smiled at Prokop. ‘He managed to force the Lotharingians to cede their rights to the entire Noteć Basin. Pomerania is now fully contiguous. That easy route to the Baltic is ours for the asking.’

    ‘Would it were always so easy!’ Prokop kissed Helene.

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    Dervan Anchabadze-Vskhoveli, Despotēs of Pomerania, formally granted military access and fleet basing rights to Moravia on the second of October, 1517. The reaction from Garderike and Vladimir was predictable—both of them at once cried foul at the prospect of an expanded Moravian presence in the Baltic. From that point, it was nearly impossible to avert a diplomatic crisis. Garderike’s network of alliances in the north was directly threatened by Moravia’s presence at Tuoppajärvi and its patronal relationship with the Lule Sámi.

    What happened next has been contested of late by several Indigenous Sámi historians who have traced the oral histories of the Lule and Northern Sámit.

    Officially, the Moravian government responded to a legal claim by the Lule Sámit over their rights to the upper reaches of their own river, which supported their livelihood. The Lule, who had long suffered the encroachments of the Northern Sámi on their traditional fishing- and trading-waters, called upon their Moravian protectors to enforce tribal law and restore order by sending a punitive expedition against the Northern Sámi. This was the incident which triggered the War of the Northern Expansion.

    The Sámi historians who sought to recover the oral histories, however, dispute this account of events. They do not deny that there was a use-rights dispute over the river between the Julevsáme and their neighbours to the north. However, such conflicts, which accompanied relatively low-scale warfare and skirmishes, were endemic to the Sámi cultures of the north, and had never prompted any sort of full-scale invasion of one Sámi tribe by another. The Lule Sámi history states that the Moravians who came north through Julevädno acted on their own initiative, and used the Lule-Northerner use-rights dispute as a pretext for conquest of the north. Later they would use similar pretexts to rob the Lule Sámi of their independence.

    ~~~

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    The opening shots of the War of the Northern Expansion were fired along several miles of the Lule River between an array of Sámi encampments, with the Moravians among them fording the river to attack Northern Sámi positions. The Northern Sámi were quickly overrun, and soon the Moravians under Kráľ Prokop were moving to control the entirety of their grazing-territory and fishing-waters. Garderike responded by sending an entire regiment into Koutajoki, and seizing it from the local siida in the name of Prince Andreas 2. Gedda.

    The stage was set for the two great armies, those of Moravia and Garderike, to clash. And clash indeed they did, at Rovaniemi.

    The battle was an utter disaster for the Moravian Army. In spite of all the technical improvements to the cavalry that they’d undertaken, the Scandinavians of Garderike—who operated with only foot soldiers and a handful of cannon—easily managed to overpower and overrun the Moravian positions. And it was the misfortune of Kráľ Prokop that he happened to be present in that battle.

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    It was unclear if the fifty-year-old Prokop had been shot during the final charge, or whether he had taken the bullet as he was attempting to sound the retreat. But he fell from his horse, his breast breached by the lead ball fired from a Garderikean musket. There was nothing at all that the Moravian leeches or Sámi healers could do for him. His body was borne back to Julevädno for the speedy burial that Orthodox tradition demanded; he became one of the only Moravian kings not to be buried in the traditional grounds at Velehrad or in the family plot at Olomouc.

    When Queen Helene heard the news of Prokop’s fall, she went in haste to see his grave. It is said that when the already-distraught queen arrived in Julevädno she was stricken with pneumonia, from which her elderly body never recovered. When she died, not one month after Prokop departed this life for the next, the faithful Helene, whose entire life had been spent in service to the Moravian royal family, went into the same grave as her husband. The resting-place of Kráľ Prokop and Kráľovná Helene at Luleju is still tended by the Sámi Orthodox Church.

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    ~~~

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    The eldest of Prokop and Helene’s ten children, Jozef Rychnovský, went to Velehrad to receive the anointing and the vestments of office as Moravia’s new king. In the absence of male issue (so far), their second son Jakub was affirmed by traditional Slavic law as well as by the Stavovské Zhromaždenie as heir to the Moravian throne.

    The War of the Northern Expansion, however, had to be placed on the back burner. A pretender to the throne had appeared in Silesia, and the Moravian Army—which had been fighting in Julevädno—had to beat a hasty retreat from the northern front in order to deal with the rebel army that had arisen around this Rostislav z Otradovič.

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    Interlude Two
  • INTERLUDE TWO.
    A Matter of Perspective
    12 October 2021


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    ‘Apricot, my eye. More like “Lemon” if you ask me…’ Professor Viktor Doubnich Weissfeld was grumbling as he leaned over his computer. ‘History department should have taken my advice, kept the old Mikro-80s. Apricot, hah. Pathetic crash-happy British heap of—’

    He slammed a thick-fingered fist against the side of the laptop. The flash of the projector behind his back caused him to look up and turn his head. The EnerGrafix presentation he’d been fighting with on his school-issued Apricot laptop had decided to start projecting.

    ‘Percussive maintenance,’ he told the class with a grim sort of half-chuckle. ‘Seems to work most of the time. Well, here he is: Kráľ Jozef.’

    The image of a honey-blond young man gazed out at the class from the projected screen. He was dressed in the full Moravian regalia, striking a rather jaunty pose, and his expression had a slightly superior hint to it, as though he knew something you didn’t. This was a particularly famous portrait that hung in an art museum in Velehrad.

    ‘Interesting figure, Jozef,’ Weissfeld went on. ‘Rychnovských weren’t exactly known for clandestine dealings. Most of them were either bookworms or press-the-flesh types, with the occasional general thrown in for flavour. Jozef, though—! If his dad was the one who founded the secret police, Jozef was the one who gave them teeth. Put ‘em to good use, too.’

    ‘Wasn’t Jozef teplý?’ blurted Ľutobor Sviták.

    ‘Rather… modern way to think about it,’ Weissfeld deadpanned. ‘Did he have a male court favourite? Yes. Was said favourite also his lover? Uh-huh. Did he delay having children with his wife until late in his reign? You get the picture. He wasn’t straight, but to call him “teplý” is to put a very… Late Imperial-period lens on him.’

    ‘But still, to have—’

    No. No, no, no. I am not,’ Weissfeld grumped, ‘going to discuss the Hidden Sex Lives of the Rychnovských in this class. You’re all still… toddlers, anyway. Really, as if medievalists don’t have anything better to do than go around peeking behind the proverbial bed-curtains.’

    Softening his tone to a slightly-less forbidding grumble, Weissfeld went on: ‘Well… I mean… if you’re really interested in that sort of thing, we haveuhreferences[1] that go into… details. But they’re at most a secondary concern here. All Late-Imperial moralising about “sodomy” aside, Jozef’s… cavorts were merely an amusing quirk compared to his ancestor Radomír hrozný’s very heterosexual neuroses. Besides, there were… bigger issues.’

    Petronila Šimkovičová raised her hand.

    ‘Yes, alright,’ Weissfeld waved a fleshy hand in her direction.

    ‘He betrayed the Lesní Slováci,’ Petra said darkly.

    Weissfeld nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Sure. Kings do that, when the money’s good enough. Debt crisis made the situation a bit more pressing. Funny enough, the Sámi have very similar complaints about Jozef, who oversaw the first and only experiment in Moravian colonialism.’

    Another slide went up. This one showed a 500-year-old map of Sápmi on it, stretching from Kilpisjärvi in the west all the way to the eastern tip of Kola, and then south to Uikujärvi. The region was clearly named: Моравске Лапонско.

    That little project didn’t last too long,’ Weissfeld said. ‘Eventually got to be too much hassle. After about 25 years Jozef’s son Tomáš 2. basically just handed the whole thing over to a local governor and told him to keep the money flowing. Still, the Sámit aren’t likely to let us live that era down.’

    ‘Doesn’t sound like he was a very good king,’ Živana remarked.

    ‘Tomáš? No, Jozef? Either way, you’re wrong. Both men were brilliant—brilliant—kings. They did what kings were supposed to do back then—use the tax coffers to expand the state’s power and influence. And both of them were remarkably good at it.’

    As if waiting for this queue, Weissfeld nudged the presentation forward one slide. At once there was shown a detailed map of Moravia Proper, complete with the red-and-white chequered-eagle coat-of-arms of the country in the corner.

    Screenshot 2023-06-06 at 00-05-31 m29137.webp (WEBP Image 1000 × 775 pixels).png

    ‘Moravia flourished under Prokop, Jozef and Tomáš. Prokop’s rule was felt by most common people in Moravia to be just, fair and stable—that impression lasted throughout Jozef’s rule. Townsfolk expanded their influence. The Moravian diplomatic corps expanded the state’s good reputation abroad. Mansfeld’s interventionist reforms—not particularly popular among the haute bourgeoisie—built on the welfare-conservatism of Kráľ Róbert. People weren’t as likely to go hungry during this time.’

    ‘But the Sámi and the Lesní Slovaks certainly didn’t think of them that way,’ said Petra.

    Weissfeld chuckled. ‘Of course they didn’t. The Sámit didn’t want to be under Moravia’s thumb; the Slovaks in the Wienerwald did; neither of them got what they wanted. On the other hand, one of the greatest early works of Sámi literature emerged from this period.’

    Forward one more slide. An antique-looking book with a broad Cyrillic printed typeface appeared.

    Ducha zákona,’ breathed Jolana Hončová.

    ‘Well,’ Weissfeld’s chins doubled in a gesture of partial acknowledgement, ‘that’s the Moravian name for it. Hardly adequate. Points if you can tell me who wrote it, though.’

    ‘It was Vulle Gáski’s magnum opus,’ Jolana said.

    ‘More like a cri de cœur to his people to remember Jesus, their ancestral ways and their ancient laws. Part Orthodox devotional literature; part Sámi political philosophy. Sparked a wave of interest—much later—among Moravian radicals to whom the democratic and consensus-based models of traditional Sámi government held a natural appeal.’

    The slideshow went forward once more. This time there was shown an elderly man with a wispy white beard, deep crow’s-feet and a pair of narrow, brown eyes. His weather-beaten face bore with it a kind of inexpressible sadness.

    ‘Vulle Gáski was not a happy man. Despite the success of his book, he lived long enough to see his people’s autonomy trampled on, their traditional way of life replaced by large-scale shipping reliant on flutes and barges running up and down the Baltic Sea. His vindication would come only much later—a hundred years after his death. But—that’s a discussion for another time. Books out. Page 143. Who was our discussant for today—?’

    The class got out their books. As it turned out, Dalibor Pelikán was to be the discussant for the chapters on Prokop, Jozef and Tomáš—the ‘successful’ kings of Moravia’s sixteenth century.


    [1] OBLIGATORY WARNING: all links to TLoC in this paragraph are Not Safe For Work. As if that needed to be said.
     
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