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

[Revan86]

II.
16 January 1416 – 11 December 1417

Jan Hus was suspended from his duties as a priest in the Orthodox Church of Moravia in late 1415, pending a summons to Velehrad to answer for ecclesiastical crimes, including the suspected promulgation of heresy. There was little doubt that the uprising in Bohemia against the king, and the involvement of self-proclaimed Johanité[1] on both sides of the civil war, prompted this disciplinary action. The priestmonk asked from Kráľ Róbert, and was granted, safe passage from Prague, across rebel-held lines into loyalist-held territory to obey this summons and answer the charges against him. The bishops of the Orthodox Church of Moravia, with Archbishop Prokop taking the position of primacy, laid out the charges against the Priestmonk Jan Hus as follows.

• That, in his tirades against the lax morals of Prokop’s predecessor Archbishop Elisei and his calls for a higher standard of morality among the priesthood, he knowingly promulgated the ecclesiological heresy of the 4th-century African Donatus Magnus;
• That he had called for an abolition of the sacramental priesthood and promulgated a radical doctrine of individual interpretation of Scripture;
• That he had called for unilateral reforms to the Liturgical rubrics to bring them into conformity with the common vernacular, in breach of historical usage;
• That, in supporting turmoil within the Moravian realm and inciting actions against lawful secular rule, he was in breach of proper Church discipline.

This local council of the Orthodox Church of Moravia was given the blessing of the (extraordinarily young) Ecumenical Patriarch Sabbas of Constantinople, who himself attended the proceedings—although as a visiting bishop within Moravia, he did not arrogate to himself any right to speak on behalf of the whole Church at this particular council.

When Jan Hus arrived at the council, he was treated with consideration. Jan’s personality was fairly abrasive, and he at first bristled against the charges that were laid upon him. But after some time, he stood before the bishops with great poise and interior calm. He answered the charges:

‘Holy fathers, venerable labourers in the vineyard of Christ, I beseech your pardon. I did speak broadly, and with great anger, against the various manifest iniquities of which the former Archbishop Elisei (may God forgive his sins and make his memory to be eternal) was guilty in life. However, I am at pains to remember any occasion upon which I pronounced that his sins made him unworthy to impart the Holy Gifts to the people. May Christ forgive my sin, if I led even one person into confusion with my words spoken in temper! I utterly despise and condemn the Donatist doctrine.

‘With regard to the second charge, I hold that it is a falsehood. Let the Just Judge of all—who on that dread day shall terribly judge me, the sinner and unprofitable servant—be my witness. Such an enormity has never entered into my heart, let alone into my words. For I know many priests whose shoes I am not worthy to take off, and whose heels—on account of their holy conduct—I should like to kiss[2]. I have only ever held that priests must never accept payment in exchange for the Holy Mysteries; and most of the priests of my acquaintance already obey this stricture.

‘That it is my reasoned desire that the Liturgy be celebrated in the Czech language, the language which most common Češi speak, is no great secret. If Saint Mark could teach in Latin; and Saint John of Patmos in Greek; Saint Matthew in Hebrew; Saint Luke in Syriac; Saint Simon in Farsî; and Saint Bartholomew in Aramaic—then how comes it that the Czechs may not hear the word of God in a language nearer to them than the Church Slavonic of six hundred years hence? But although I desire such reforms, I have not undertaken to implement them myself without the blessing of Your Holiness, my bishop. May God forgive my stubbornness and arrogant self-will, if I allowed this temptation to fester in any man’s heart.

‘With regard to the fourth charge, that I have stirred up enmity and envy against the lords of the Moravian realm, I answer: it is true that I have enjoined and encouraged lords and ladies to be merciful to their bowers. I have also publicly admonished those who have abused the authority with which God has entrusted them. That great lords host lavish feasts with lewd dancing and frivolous games is a stumbling-block to many men and women. And it is worse still that some among the Moravian lords extort and plunder, in the most shameless and vicious fashion, wealth in the form of various unjust duties and levies from simple folk: commoners who know no defence in law and whose only help is in the Lord Jesus Christ! Stealing the very crumbs from people who have only that! And yet, I do attest, there are great lords and ladies who are radiant in their souls with the light of Christ’s love, and they show it each day to those they meet, of high or low station in life. With such authorities I have no quarrel, and I pray God to protect and keep them.’

With Jan Hus having delivered his apology, the bishops deliberated.

In the end, of the four ecclesial charges of which he stood accused, the Priestmonk Jan Hus was found guilty only of one—the last, his opposition to lawful secular rule and breach of proper Church discipline. On account of this, his suspension from the priesthood was upheld. He was exhorted to return to his monastery in seclusion under penance from his abbot, and refrain from speaking in public or from celebrating the Divine Liturgy for a period of seven years, at which time he would again be examined. If he had repented of his lack of discipline, his suspension would be lifted. If not, he would be defrocked[3].

~~~​

The followers of Jan Hus among the Nositelia Viery, at the same time as he was facing these ecclesiastical charges in Velehrad, were busy in the north of Bohemia. They were fighting against the rebellious Bohemian nobility, whose authority Jan Hus was convicted of resisting. The irony was not lost on the Johanité, though most of them bore it stoically.

There was one squabble which took place over the issue, however—publicly, and in full view of the camp. One of the Nositelia, a partizan of Jan Hus by the name of Svätoslav (who, like his master Žižka, wore a patch over one eye), erupted into a shouting match with the notably devout gentry lad Vojmil—who took up the position of the Church. The two of them were at the point of blows when the Kráľ himself burst in upon them.

‘Y—y—you—you so—sorry exc—c—cuses for s—soldiers!’ Robin raged, his face turning red. ‘Th—the Ch—Ch—Church has been wuh—wise in up—up—pholding d—discipline while m—muh—maintaining unity! And F—Father J—J—Jan has wuh—willingly ret—t—turned to Praha, acc—c—cepting the Ch—Church’s j—judgement! Wuh—would you l—learned f—from their example! Wh—why are w—we even f—fighting this war, if you m—m—mean to sp—pp—split it into a th—thousand quarrelling f—factions? We d—duh—defend the you—yuh—unity of the M—Moravian realm, or all of this is in v—v—vain!’

As Kráľ Róbert stumbled and stammered his way laboriously through this speech, somehow the two young men who were fighting did pay attention and were appropriately chastened. They made their peace and went back to their tents, and spoke no more of the issue. Even so, it was clear to see that the Nositelia were far from happy about this treatment of their spiritual figurehead.

The engagements at Chrudim and Uničov were mostly one-sided operations in which the Nositelia were given the dirty work of mopping up. The glory went to the young king, naturally.

Much more major was the battle at Trenčín.

The Bohemian nobles quickly realised their error of placing a civilian like Záviš at the head of their army, and quickly replaced him with a mercenary captain of their own: a Luxembourger named Robrecht, who led the Brabantian Bedrijf van de Wolf. Robrecht was well-known as a commander who liked to take no prisoners on the battlefield—he attacked without mercy and left no one alive where possible. Alarmingly, the Luxembourgers in his company had been given, and had trained with, handgonnes. At Trenčín they would be using these weapons in battle against Moravians, on Moravian territory, for the first time.

At Trenčín the armies were fairly evenly matched. The Bohemians had joined up with the uprisen nobles from Podkarpatská, which swelled their numbers. There were sixteen družinniki on the loyalist side, and fifteen on the rebel side. The Moravian loyalists had a slight advantage of numbers, but this was counterbalanced by the larger number of zbrojnoši on the rebel side.

Still, Knieža Budivoj did what he knew best. Despite his rather arrogant demeanour, Róbert knew him to be a brilliant commander; and this was, after all, his home territory. He staked out the high, easily-defensible positions, and deployed the Nositelia mobile barricades and houfnice around them with an infantry line on either side for lateral protection. This made the main positions of the Moravian loyalists nigh impregnable. In the end, Robrecht was forced to fight his way through a gauntlet of houfnice fire, which decimated his troops as he fought across to the western side of the Moravian position. He thereupon fled to Čáslav, where again the Moravian loyalists caught him up.

Čáslav was also Moravian home territory, and here Kráľ Róbert took personal command. The Luxembourger was not as used to fighting in mountainous terrain, and with the few, exhausted and wounded troops he had left he didn’t stand much of a chance. Thus, the Moravian king made short work of the remnants of the Bedrijf van de Wolf, and took Robrecht prisoner.

The mines at Čáslav, however, could only produce so much ore, the furnaces could only smelt so much malm, and the mints could only strike so many silver coins. There wasn’t enough bullion in Robin’s war chest to continue as he had; mercenary troops like the Varangians and the Nositelia Viery being expensive to maintain. And so Robin appealed in writing to the young Ecumenical Patriarch Sabbas, who sent him back a cordial reply along with some six and a half pounds of fine gold to carry on the campaign.

In this campaign, Kráľ Róbert came to have a new appreciation for his maršal, whom he had disliked so much as a boy. Budivoj Mikulčický had stayed by him throughout this crisis, which in itself was commendable. But he had also obeyed several of the king’s orders he had disagreed with—in particular those relating to the Nositelia. And he continued to prove his worth on the battlefield, making excellent defensive use of the Nositelia’s armoured carts, mobile barricades and artillery to enhance fortifications wherever they were under threat. As a logistician, as a defender, and as a man who was clearly capable of handling winter campaigns, Róbert discovered a fresh well of respect for the older man.

Not everyone felt the same way, however.

‘We have these amazing new artillery pieces, the houfnice,’ complained Burgomaster Prelimír, ‘and all Mikulčický wants to do with them is hide away and hole up in defensive encampments! We need to take the fight to the enemy if we’re going to win this war! The offensive capabilities of the new weaponry are wasted on the likes of Mikulčický.’

Naturally, Budivoj took a much different view. Although when he was newly installed the Kráľ would have instinctively sided with Prelimír against Budivoj, now he took a rather more moderate tack.

‘B—Budivoj’s right: we do need to p—pp—protect val—valuable sites like Č—Čáslav,’ he told Prelimír. ‘We c—c—can’t risk the mines f—f—f—falling into rebel hands. O—On—On the other hand, though, I agree that we sh—should exp—p—periment a bit more with t—tuh—tactics in using these w—weapons. In p—pp—particular, let’s s—s—see how well they fuh—function as support for ch—chevauchée t—tactics on Bohemian t—t—territory itself.’

By this time the Greeks from Thessalia had arrived at the behest of the young Despot Ioustinianos. They had begun laying siege to key fortifications in central Bohemia, while the armies of Kráľ Róbert took up positions around Praha itself—and then Žatec, and then Sedlec. One by one each of these cities fell. It soon became clear that the houfnice, though nowhere near as powerful as the bombardy, still had their uses in siege warfare. However, the forces of the Kráľ weren’t the only ones on the move.

Drahomír 2. Rychnovský-Vyšehrad had gotten a second wind in him. He had gathered the nobles of Bohemia and Silesia together, and had waited for Siidalávlut Wizlaw and his band of Sámit from the north to join him at last in the contiguous territories of Moravia. They then moved straight against Olomouc.

The Bohemian noble rebels had siege equipment as well, fired by black powder, every bit as effective and destructive as that which the Moravian loyalists could bring to bear. The garrison fought the Bohemian noble rebels in the town and around Olomouc Castle for some months, but in the end the defenders of Olomouc could not hold out. The Sámi Siidalávlut was the first one inside the gates.

Never before had Olomouc itself fallen to an enemy siege. Wizlaw had done what countless enemies of Moravia across hundreds of years of history had been unable to do. He flew the black vane of the Sámit of Tuoppajärvi from the battlements of the town.

The frightened little blond toddler who clung to her wet-nurse on her way through the back corridors of the castle and out to a secret exit… Wizlaw seized. This young kinswoman of his, he hauled up over his shoulder and brought back out into the courtyard: a valuable hostage indeed. Kráľ Robin wouldn’t want to risk any harm coming to his only child! Two, however, could play at that game. Kráľ Robin already had, as prisoner in his own camp, Drahomír’s wife, the Kňažná Lesana. Once he heard that Helene had been taken prisoner, he made this known to the rebels. It was a standoff… though not an entirely balanced one. Wizlaw’s prisoner was, all things considered, far more valuable than Robin’s.

The final, decisive battle seemed to be swiftly upon them. The armies of the King marched back toward Moravia Proper, but then swung clear of attempting to take back Olomouc head-on. He turned instead to Velehrad, and to the newer town of Brno. There, by Brno, the loyalist armies met the armies of Drahomír once more.

The rebels were being led by a seasoned Sámi warrior, one of Wizlaw’s compatriots, whose name has unfortunately been lost to history. This Sámi warrior was much more formidable a commander than either Záviš or even Robrecht had been: he deployed his forces with great skill and forced even Budivoj onto a back footing. It looked briefly like the Moravian armies would be bested. But then the Greek armour-bearers of Thessalia appeared—and the tide of battle turned. The Thessalians brought not only men, but also ferocity and cunning upon the battlefield of which the heroes of whom Homer sung would be proud; and even the skilful Sámi whose might had kept the Moravians at bay was no match.

During the fighting, the forces of the king captured Boleslav, Drahomír’s brother. With both his brother and his wife in custody, the tide of the war was turning in the king’s favour, although he still didn’t have control of his own capital city.

The last thing Kráľ Robin did was to ride out himself, minus the Thessalians, northward toward Olomouc which was currently in rebel hands. He sought out, and found, Wizlaw Rychnovský-Žič and his band of Sámit; and he gave battle to them where they stood, in a copse on the banks of the Morava. When Wizlaw was taken prisoner, the first words that left Robin’s lips were:

‘Wh—wh—where is she?!’

Wizlaw glumly led the Kráľ to a nearby grotto, which served as a temporary fonsel. A voice came from inside.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’

‘Helene!’ Robin called out. He went forward into the cave and loosed his daughter’s restraints, then hugged her to him tight. She was none the worse for wear, though she was a bit shaken by her ordeal. Wizlaw treated his prisoners well as a matter of course—and besides, he had been hoping to keep her for ransom. Now the tables were turned, and Wizlaw was the prisoner rather than the king’s daughter.

With Helene freed and the brother of the Knieža as well as one of his chief vassals under guard, the rebellion could no longer be sustained. The Bohemians, Silesians and Sámit came to Olomouc to agree to a peace with the Kráľ, and Drahomír as well as Wizlaw was taken into the king’s keeping.

But the beginning of the end of the medieval era had already begun. New technologies and new tactics dominated the battlefield. Noble retinues no longer counted for as much; mercenary bands took their place… and would soon come to be replaced themselves with standing armies. Kráľ Robin himself, however, was but dimly aware of this. His concern was with making the most effective (and most humane) military decisions possible—grand thoughts of the changing nature of warfare and statecraft had yet to enter his teenage mind.

---

[1] Or, in another time and another universe, Hussites.
[2] This is a paraphrase of the historical Jan Hus’s written reply to Archbishop Zbynek’s enjoinders on some of his questionable teachings regarding the priesthood.
[3] In another time and in another universe, Jan Hus met a very different end at the Roman Catholic Council of Constance.

 

[Revan86]

Robin and Elisabet shows promise of being a marriage that Hallmark would reject as too sweet. Even though she is a genius, her stats are not that much better than Robin's. Neither are great at intrigue, but in a straight-ahead fight, Watch Out. Thank You

Well, when both of the spouses have those just and compassionate traits, both have the skilled tactician education trait and the reaver commander trait (how does that even go with just and compassionate?), it would be kind of weird if they didn't have chemistry.

As for stats; yeah, Elisabet kind of got robbed. Genius doesn't always mean that you get superhuman attributes.

Four centuries later, the lessons of charging embedded artillery would not be learned. I am already having withdrawal pains as Robin is our last character. Thanks

Yup. And we are very quickly approaching the end of the CK3 run. The story continues in EU4, though!

 

[Midnite Duke]

I know the EU4 portion exists, but I am refusing to start until CK finishes. Grand victory over the rebel trash and little Helene is safe. How did the Ecumenical Patriarch fall to one young surely not by his likeability (dip 0)? From what region of Greece did family Iziaslavich arise? Thank you for postponing my withdrawal pains.

 

[Revan86]

THIRTEEN
Blood of the Kings
4 January 1418 – 31 July 1419
​

‘You brought her back!’ Elisabet cried as soon as she saw Robin come through the courtyard with little Helene in his arms. She ran to embrace them both, and tears were streaming down her face.

‘Robin—’ Elisabet choked, ‘Helene—! I’m so, so sorry. I thought that the wet-nurse was right behind me. And then…! I looked everywhere…! Oh, thank goodness…’

‘I’m okay, Mommy,’ Helene assured her distraught mother. Three-year-olds are resilient creatures indeed: although they are vulnerable and feel things keenly in the moment, once out of danger they are quick to bounce back, quick to forgive, and quick to move on.

Elisabet hugged and kissed her little one tightly, though. She hadn’t had a moment’s peace since she’d realised Helene had gone missing, and she couldn’t help blaming herself that Wizlaw had captured her after the siege. But now there was only joy, relief and gratitude. She and Robin and Helene were a whole family once again. When she had carried Helene in her arms back up to her room, and laid her on the bed, sang her off to sleep, tucked her in under the covers and caressed her lovely sleeping face, and turned to face her husband—only then did she ask:

‘How can I ever thank you?’ Elisabet took her husband by the hands. But the gleam in her eyes and the smirk on her lips told him she was already thinking of a way.

‘We can d—d—discuss that,’ Robin encouraged her.

They did far more than just discuss. Elisabet barely had the door to their chambers closed behind her than their lips were locked in a heated caress, and her hands were inside his hose and tugging them down. Robin roughly undid her brooches, and she gleefully cast aside apron and gown, before she hiked up the hem of her shift and clambered onto the bed on her knees, wagging her rump in invitation. She thanked him that night: repeatedly, enthusiastically, a tergo.

~~~​

When Robin awoke next to his wife the following morning—she had yet to arise; her smooth, pearly naked back was rising and falling with slow, deep, contented breaths—he found his thoughts drifting to the question of legacy. As well they might: after a young man has sown his seed, is it so unnatural for him to wonder where it comes from and whither it goes? (Of course, this meandering of Robin’s mind might very well have been due to Helene’s own mounting curiosity about her own origins, among multifarious and sundry other things.)

In Lužica, the Wojwoda there—Ľubomír, who was newly independent of Vogtland—had formed yet another cadet branch of the mighty Rychnovský tree. That brought the total number of lineages within the Rychnovský dynasty to fourteen. These were, by order of their recording: Rychnovský; Rychnovský-Kluczbork; Rychnovský-Žič; Rychnovský-Nisa; Rychnovský-Lehnice; Rychnovský-Berlín; Rychnovský-Vyšehrad; Richeneaux-Beaumont; Rychnovský-Hojn; Neokaisareitēs; Rychnovský-Błota; Rychnovský-Peshkopi; Święca; and the newly-founded Rychnovský-Jutrobóh. There were a total of 211 Rychnovských of note scattered throughout Europe.

The stock established by the union of Bohodar Slovoľubec and Mechthild of Stuttgart, conceived in that ecclesiological argument in the Velehrad courtyard 550 years ago, had endured and had flourished. Thinking upon this, at once humbled Robin and impressed upon him the duties to which he was bound. The headship of a mighty patrimony lay under his care. He ought to take better care of it than he had.

And Elisabet, lying next to him with her bed-tousled blond hair teasing and stirring at her sleepy breath, was just as invested in the nurturing of that stock as he was. Hadn’t she proven it just now? Robin felt a sudden and overpowering affection for this Gothic-Greek-Swedish woman at his side. How could he express that to her—especially given his horrid predisposition to stuttering? And how could he do so before making the still-expected march upon Kiev?

When he arose from his bed and dressed, he made his way to the formidable library assembled by his scholarly forebears. He looked through the volumes that touched upon the severan culture and customs. Among these he found a thin volume, which was entitled in Slavonic: Сага о Спаленом Ньялови—the Saga of Burnt-Njáll. He picked this book up and began to read. It was a prose work, not verse, but he was thoroughly entranced with it. The tale dealt not only with the themes of jealousy, revenge and murder—the stock-in-trade of the severan sagas—but also with love so deep that even death could not quell it. Robin soon came to realise that it would be a perfect expression of what he felt for the Northwoman who was yoked together with him.

Robin found the portion he wanted to recite. He practised. And he practised. And he practised.

To his surprise, Robin found it easier to speak in the terse, blunt cadence of the Norse tongue than in his own—and if he was given extra encouragement by the object of his affection to whom his devotion was to be proven, so much the better. Also: it was easier to recite than to extemporise—and this was something Róbert had always struggled with doing, as his thoughts raced far ahead of his tongue’s capacity to correctly articulate them.

But it still took great effort, and many weeks of intense, sleepless concentration, for Róbert to get to the point where he could fluently recite the passage from the 128th Chapter of the Saga, which related the tragic end of Njáll and his wife and family. By that time, Elisabet had already gotten pregnant and carried their second child—a boy, as it would turn out, naturally named Vojtech—nearly to term.

When he finally did so (in the Olomouc Castle courtyard, in full hearing not only of Elisabet but several of her friends), he surprised even himself.

‘You didn’t even stutter once, Robin,’ Elisabet told him afterward with evident satisfaction, though her face dimpled with a slightly sceptical smirk. ‘Although, you do understand that you were speaking from Bergþóra’s deal—the woman’s?’

‘The d—d—devotion is the same, for m—man or woman.’

‘True,’ deepened the dimple, ‘but dearly I hope we don’t have to be burnt to death together in the same house to show it.’

~~~​

The opportunity for Robin to prove his devotion came sooner than he expected.

There was a dinner, which the Kráľ had planned and hosted specifically so that he could spend one last night in conversation with his consort before he was due to march off to Kiev. Unfortunately for him, Elisabet seemed somewhat preoccupied—actually, uncomfortable might have been a better word. She barely spoke five words to him together during the meal, which was somewhat frustrating as usually it was the reverse: Robin was the one who got tongue-tied. Indeed, she hardly touched her food and seemed to have little appetite.

Kráľ Róbert leaned forward and was about to ask Elisabet what was the matter, when all of a sudden there was an almighty thunderous blast of flatulence. The report reverberated loudly through the hall, bringing all the conversation to a dead halt as pairs of eyes began to search for its source. Several of these turned with suspicion toward Elisabet, who looked at the moment like she wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor and vanish.

Róbert thought quickly, and with a mighty surge of will and presence of mind, said:

‘Ekk—ekks—ks—ssk—ex—scuse me, all,’ he patted his belly. ‘Bet—buh—b—better I lay off the b—b—beer for awhile, eh?’

That cost the king himself some fair amount of mortification, not to mention the respect of the nobles and dignitaries there gathered. But it earned him quite a bit more.

Elisabet dropped the latch behind her, caught her husband’s hands, and said:

‘That… was the sweetest, most drightly thing you could have done for me.’

‘B—better than b—burning alive in the same house, then?’

Elisabet laughed—a loud, strong peal of mischievous laughter. ‘Much, Robin! Though my farts could like at times light such fires fit to burn us all. You should know hereafter that when I get gas, I get gas. Hope you’re not too ashamed of me.’

Robin flushed. But it was not with shame.

‘Also,’ Elisabet added, ‘I think it may be high time you started calling me Ilse when we’re together. Only a strict chosen few are allowed ever to call me that; but I think you’ve well earned the right by now.’

~~~

The romance of Robin and Ilse couldn’t be said to have been particularly dramatic, apart from the incident with the fart in the grand hall. But it did draw the two of them much closer together, and made them much more intimate with each other. Robin very nearly stopped stammering altogether in Ilse’s presence, so deeply did she put him at ease. And he learned quite quickly that she had a thorough relish and deep enjoyment of scatological humour, and learned himself to appreciate that side of her.

As for the war for Kiev, that ended on a fairly anticlimactic note. The boyar whose claim formed the basis for Veliky Knyaz’ Kirill’s war against the White Rus’ died suddenly, ending the war early. The Moravian troops never even had to march eastward. Most—including, as expected, the Queen-Consort—greeted this news with joy (not so much the death of the boyar, but rather simply the fact that the war was over). Few Moravians relished the thought of fighting in a war between the Rus’ principalities; and the grudges against the Galicians were largely held outside the scope of internal Rus’ politics.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Thirty-three years, about ten more episodes before I must journey to EU. Robin and Ilse are getting sweeter. A male heir! Thank you

 

[Revan86]

Thirty-three years, about ten more episodes before I must journey to EU.

We're leaving together, but still it's farewell.
But maybe we'll come back to Earth. Who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame. We're leaving ground!
Will things ever be the same again?

 

[Revan86]

FOURTEEN
Hail and Kill
10 November 1419 – 1 January 1423
​

The following years were broadly considered to be ones of peace and stability in Moravia. The Bohemian uprising having ended, Kráľ Róbert made a concerted effort to implement price controls, re-standardise the mintage of silver from Hory Kutné, and wherever possible open the granaries so that food prices would fall. This did cost him some goodwill among the peasantry who had to compete with the free grain from the royal granaries, but the townsfolk of troubled places like Hradec and Přemkóv all welcomed Róbert’s interventions as the actions of a just and caring king.

In order to offset the temporary (he hoped) undercutting of prices he was doing, at Queen Ilse’s urging Robin also offered up a significant portion of the royal coffers to implement relief programmes in rural Bohemia. This was a costly move, but it did have the effect of keeping the peasantry happy: some of them even went to Olomouc bearing gifts, but Kráľ Róbert politely refused them, instead asking only for their prayers.

Later leftist historians would see Robin’s social laws and relief efforts as one of the first attempts by a reigning monarch to smooth over class differences and postpone a general revolution through conservative welfare reforms. Robin did have some defenders on the left as having a ‘red breast’, however, on account of his closeness to the Nositelia Viery. The Kráľ did, after all, honour his agreement to the mercenary band after their dismissal, and allowed them to set up their nominally-taxed ‘free town’ in Hradiště. Hradiště, which later economic historians would characterise as an experiment in religious syndicalism based on the teachings of Jan Hus, lasted several generations being run on these principles before it petered out during the reign of Kráľ Jozef.

The borders of the Moravian land had also been pared down by several successive Moravian kings in an attempt to retain control. The latest victim of this policy was the recently-uprisen Vojvoda of Silesia, who was forced by Kráľ Róbert to set Věluň at liberty. However, this had the effect of giving Moravia a de jure territory broadly agreed upon by all of its neighbours. The claims of Moravia over Bohemia, Upper Silesia, Nitra, Užhorod and Podkarpatská had been established long enough now that they were considered to be beyond reproach… not that this prevented the new Carpathian Empire from eyeing Moravia’s southern lands with a covetous eye.

The other change that occurred during Róbert’s rule was that the realm which had been referred to consistently as Veľká Morava—Moravia the Great—began to drop the ‘Great’ from its own title. This drop was gradual. Róbert himself was known to use both ‘Veľká Morava’ and ‘Morava’ interchangeably to refer to his realm in writings throughout his life. The Duchy of Moravia—that is to say, the region consisting of the Morava Valley—on the other hand, came to be called Vlastné Morava. The reason for this shift is unknown, though one diplomat’s recorded comment on the shift to a visiting prince in Olomouc is illuminating: ‘All the world knows that Moravia is “great”; why insist on calling it so?’

‘You have d—done remarkably well, my son,’ Queen Mother Adriana complimented the Kráľ during one of the royal hunts. ‘It might not s—seem like it r—right now, but you’re helping the realm to r—rebuild.’

‘It c—c—cost us enough,’ Robin answered her thoughtfully. Adriana knew that her son didn’t simply mean in terms of silver.

‘Maybe so,’ his mother urged. ‘But such are the r—realities of rule. It was that way for your father.’

‘I m—miss him,’ Robin hung his head.

‘You and he are v—very s—similar men,’ his mother assured him. ‘He’s not r—really gone. You’re r—ruling the r—realm he left to you, m—much the way he would have.’

It was at that point in the hunt that one fousek picked up on a scent—and a strong one at that. Some quarry was nearby! Indeed: a grizzled-grey form nearly as long and as heavy as a grown man leapt out from hiding and bounded off up the trail. The fousek bayed, and Robin and Adriana both took off after it, followed by the rest of the royal retinue.

Mother and son both rode after the grey beast, keeping it within sight as it loped with expert grace through the early spring trees. The wolf turned upstream at a small burn leading into a narrow defile, hoping that way to evade his pursuers. But Adriana and her son kept him in sight.

‘T—take the shot, son!’ Adriana bade him.

Róbert fetched an arrow off the quiver from his back, fitted it to the bow, and drew high, aiming at a mark some ten paces ahead of where the wolf was bounding, and loosed. The arrow sailed high, almost lazily, through the air as the wolf continued to run. He was not expecting death to fall upon him from the sky, as the arrow returned to earth and embedded itself cleanly into the wolf’s neck. A great hail went up from the assembled hunters in recognition of this kill.

The hunt returned to Olomouc in triumph, and immediately thereupon a great feast was called.

Róbert had prepared a little surprise for his vassals as they came in—inspired by a prank that he’d heard Kráľ Želimír had once played on his daughter, he had several peacocks stuffed and roasted, and then adorned anew in their original plumage, and presented them as centrepieces of the feast. One of them, however, had not been roasted—or even killed. It was Purkmistra Prelimír who had the misfortune of being seated near this one; as he made to take a cut of the bird, the angry peacock rose up and pecked Prelimír soundly on the nose, before taking off down the table in a bid to escape, much to the delight of the others in the hall.

The bird didn’t get far, though. It was the peacock’s misfortune that Prelimír was seated near Purkmistra Miloš, who shot out a hand and grabbed the bird by the neck. With grim sangfroid, the other burgomaster twisted his hands with the peacock’s neck between them. There was a frightful snap, and there was no life left in the bird when he loosed it. It fell again to the table with a heavy thud. The entire hall stopped short in its laughter with stunned silence.

Once the feasters had recovered themselves from the sight, and the dead peacock had been removed to be properly prepared with the rest, the remainder of the feast progressed amiably. Prelimír still held his nose rather gingerly, and Kráľ Róbert’s other vassals and guests all gave the coldblooded Purkmistra Miloš a rather wider berth than they were wont to normally.

Ilse celebrated in private with her husband after the feast was over. She scrubbed and cleaned and washed herself thoroughly, poured a little finger-bowl of olive oil for lubricant, lit scented candles—the whole nine yards. She gave Róbert good cause to love her Greek and Swedish side. Once more soon enough she was pregnant, and she gave birth to another son—a blond one, like his mother. Still, she wanted to name the boy Róbert, for her husband. To this, the touched Kráľ agreed.

One good feast deserves another, evidently, and soon Róbert found himself invited to Kňažná Kvetoslava’s feast in Nitra. During this feast, he made certain to discuss topics of strategic import with one of her vassals on the southern side, and also to make a public promise to Kňažná Kvetoslava to assure her of his favour.

In the courtly politics of late-medieval Europe, none of these small gestures was divorced from a larger and more expansive symbolic meaning. In this case, both of these gestures by the Kráľ toward his female vassals were actually aimed squarely at the Carpathian Empire. In his discussion with Bohumila about battle tactics, he was informing any Carpathian agents present at that feast that he was serious about border defence. And in making such a public promise to Kvetoslava, he was affirming also to them that the old feud between the Rychnovských and the Mojmírovci was well and truly over—and that Kvetoslava would have his full support and confidence. If they were thinking of attacking him indirectly by suborning her, they had better think twice.

Following this feast in Nitra, though, the Moravian king sent a herald to one of the princely Detvanských south of the border—one who followed the Magyar ways rather than the Bulgarian ones—with an offer of a much more friendly sort. Kráľ Robin agreed to betroth his eldest son, Vojtech, to Prelimír Detvanský’s daughter Hedwig, in order to secure peace with his alarmingly-large and -powerful southern neighbour. This diplomatic overture did work for a time.

And thereafter, Robin made a penitential journey to Antioch, in order to expiate his sins and in order to approach God upon the well-travelled road forged by his forefathers. In addition to this he sent a lavish gift to the young Patriarch Sabbas, partly as thanks for Constantinople’s assistance to him during the recent civil war. He was not expecting to fall so deeply in love with a place that was not his home.

The young Kráľ, who was still in his rough first growth of beard, had a couple of unpleasant experiences during his travels there, including one run-in with a self-described ‘mystic’ who ended up robbing him after he’d fallen asleep in her tent on account of the cloying vapours and repetitive chanting of her acolytes. He’d had to make several bargains in Constantinople in order to continue all the way to Antioch. Even then by the time he got there he was nearly without funds: a situation he had never been close to in any of his privileged years.

But when he made it to Antioch, he was stunned by the beauty of the place—the blue of the sky, the glimmering of the Orontes, the sun-baked gold of the streets. Greek and Arabic echoed throughout the marketplace; sumptuous tapestries of fabric interwove his imagination with their geometric patterns, and the scents of spices from India and China mingled with the incense of the churches. He was impressed in particular with how Muslims and Christians and Jews all seemingly lived side-by-side here in peace and common respect… and was as yet unaware of how truly rare and precious such harmony as could be found in the Syrian lands actually was.

When he reached the seat of the bishop, and came forward to be blessed by Patriarch Fâlîriyyûs—that is, Valerios in the Greek tongue—of Antioch, the tall, aquiline-nosed patrician Arab smiled and presented the Kráľ with a delicate filigree cross-bottany made of silver. How truly exquisite was the workmanship! (And it took no mean skill in silversmithing to impress a Moravian king who held title over Hory Kutné.) The Christian symbol was overlaid with such delicately-woven palm fronds, an eight-pointed mullet, swords, crescents, and even a pair of eagles, their eyes agleam, their tiny beaks open to delicately-chiselled tongues, each feather wrought to be near lifelike! Robin bowed and kissed the hand of Patriarch Fâlîriyyûs with deep gratitude… but not before he made the following plea:

‘Your Holiness, m—m—might I not h—have the favour of an—n—nother such cuh—c—cross for my wife? Sh—she is back in Moravia.’

‘Take this back to her,’ intoned the Patriarch, smiling subtly, ‘with my blessings and prayers for you both.’

He granted unto Robin another silver pendant—identical in all respects but in size. It was only two-thirds as big, and therefore the workmanship was twice as fine. The thanks that he rendered to Fâlîriyyûs were but barely articulate in any language, so profoundly was he moved.

Robin returned to Moravia, humbler and wiser than he had been hitherto, but still not knowing that this would be the first of several of his trips to Syria.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Will it be the natural end of 1453 or the natural beginning of 1444? I have no idea how a peacock tastes, but I do know that it can make a horrible noise almost as bad as a guinea. Thank you

 

[Revan86]

FIFTEEN
Heart of Steel
19 February 1423 – 3 January 1426

​

Kráľ Róbert grew before the eyes of his whole kingdom from a young boy into a young man. His beard, now no longer the rough, thin scruff of a mere youth, had filled out into a fine shape. Many visiting diplomats and scholars would confirm that his auburn visage was indeed majestic, despite having a frame that they would describe as ‘slight’.

His rule was increasingly one which was celebrated for its even-handedness and clemency. Those vassals of the Rychnovský dynasty who had been taken in rebellion against him, had been released on condition of their good behaviour; a move for which he was praised and commended by the Church. Only Sjätopolk 2. of Podkarpatská remained under house arrest.

The very first thing that Wizlaw Rychnovský-Žič did upon his release and return to Koutajoki, was to arrange to host a lavish and elaborate feast for the king who had freed him—as he had once done for Róbert’s grandfather Ostromír. Róbert was not overly inclined to be suspicious of this. Wizlaw was well-known not only among the Sámi but also among his Slavic kin as a great lover of wine and music and banqueting, and he had earned something of a reputation for indulgence. Elisabet, however, was a different matter. She clearly still held the small matter of his abduction of Helene against him.

‘He is not to be trusted,’ Ilse pronounced decidedly. ‘I can’t stop you from going there, of course—hell. I’m the one who advised you how to make diplomatic overtures to him in the first place. But I will advise you to watch your back around that man. Observe what others eat and drink before you touch anything.’

Personally, Róbert thought the worst-case scenario he would face up there would be a superlative bout of indigestion on account of the guompa. The stuff made him queasy just to think about. But aloud he said: ‘Naturally I will t—take every precaution. Even so, a good king knows w—when to forgive.’

‘Oh, yes, yes. I know what holy Mother Church says,’ Ilse waved a dismissive, even scornful hand. ‘Just as long as you don’t forget what he did to us.’

The ways of the Sámit were every bit as frempt and foreign to Róbert as they had been to his grandfather, when he witnessed them. He wasn’t used to being addressed on a familiar, first-name basis by everyone he met… clearly without any desire to offend or belittle; merely as a matter of custom. He also wasn’t used to seeing Christian men and women who crossed themselves in their little wooden churches and prayed the Lord’s Prayer, go out and bow to trees and rocks and inlets on the lakeshore, and leave small offerings of goodwill to the spirits that dwelt in those places. However, he couldn’t help but admire the sense of balance and harmony that he saw; the way in which the Sámit were equally at home farming their small household plots (arranged around, and without clearing or disturbing, the wild places), or in the forests and on the rivers fishing, hunting and herding reindeer.

It was also strange, when he finally came to Wizlaw’s dwelling, to see him conversing with his wife Giste in a language so completely unlike any Slavic tongue Róbert had ever heard, or insist upon being called by his own first name only—or else, by the title of Siidalávlut rather than by that of Hrabě (with which his blood and which tradition demanded that he be vested). There were several other guests there—some again from his own Rychnovský-Žič kindred, and one or two of the local Sámi notables. Robin found himself seated next to one of these: a middle-aged woman with sandy-brown hair, bushy brows and a pair of extraordinarily-high cheekbones. This woman introduced herself as Biellá—a speaker of a local siida which met some fifteen miles away from Tuoppajärvi.

Once Robin got to talking with Biellá, who actually spoke passable Moravian, he found her an engaging conversationalist. Biellá was mostly interested in how Moravia was going to provide the Sámit with workable defences against the men of Garðaríki, which had been pushing with greater and greater boldness northward through the Finnish lands. But the conversation soon turned to fishing and the river trade along the Koutajoki.

‘On a r—r—river like K—Koutajoki,’ Robin asked, ‘isn’t d—d—drift-net f—fishing rather a plighty method of at—t—ttaining your yield? If you use them too much, there won’t be a s—stock of trout left in f—ff—following years.’

Biellá laughed. ‘No, we use drift-nets only in late summer. We never use them for the catch when the trout and bass are spawning. Do you fish often, Róbert?’

‘Oh, I’ve been known to c—cast a line or two,’ Robin smiled. ‘I’ve never h—ha—had to make my living from the art, though, which is p—pp—probably for the best. But… p—pardon me… in late summer you’d be further n—north on the K—Koutajoki, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Biellá. ‘In summer, the biting flies on this stretch of the river can be ghastly. It’s only natural for both human and reindeer to move north in that season.’

‘S—surely the swallows must d—do their bit to help keep the f—f—flies from getting out of hand, though? I’ve seen some r—ruh—rather sizeable nests under the r—rafters of your ch—churches; they must be fairly happy here d—during the summer.’

‘You’re very observant,’ Biellá noted. ‘How comes it that you know so much about swallows?’

‘Well, you h—have to know these things when you’re a king, you know.’

Soon enough, however, the topic of conversation came back to Garðaríki, and the Siidalávlut himself became involved in the conversation.

‘I do wonder,’ said Wizlaw, ‘how the Moravian main line of troops will manage coming to the defence of Koutajoki without a sea route northward. That seems to be a fairly insurmountable hurdle for any relief effort in the event of a Gardman attack. Lord knows the Sámit will have little but the terrain for our support; we have few troops and practically nothing for a garrison.’

‘There are two p—possible options,’ Róbert told his kinsman. ‘We can n—nuh—negotiate a sea-p—passage through P—Pomerania, or we can c—c—call on our Ruthenian allies to grant us p—passage over land to the G—Gardman rear lines. In that c—case, all the Sámit would have to do would be to eng—g—ngage the Gardmen on your own g—guh—ground and hold as long as it t—took us to make one of those nuh—northward routes.’

‘You would simply arrive too late!’ Wizlaw exclaimed. ‘Unless you mobilised a significant number of your retinue on Sámi territory, there would be no such two-front war against the Gardmen; they would simply stomp northward and then stomp southward again. With respect—strategically, your ideas carry no water!’

Róbert was stunned a bit speechless at this. He fought down the rage that had plagued him since youth along with his stutter, and managed the reply: ‘W—we shall ha—have to put it to the t—t—test, then. N—not that I’m s—s—saying I’ll p—pp—provoke a war with Garðaríki to suh—settle the question.’

‘I should hope not,’ said Wizlaw, with a bit of an ironic lilt. ‘If our experience has taught us anything, it’s that your tactics are better at retrieving what you’ve lost, rather than protecting it in the first place.’

Kráľ Róbert’s face reddened, but he maintained an admirable composure despite the provocation.

~~~​

The progenitor of the Rychnovských had long enjoyed a reputation as an outstanding scholar, and the house he had founded had long carried that reputation forward. Not only Bohodar slovoľubec, but also Kráľ Tomáš, Radomír 2., Bohodar 3. letopisár, Radomír 3. and Bohodar 4. all had been remarkably well-learned; and even the more martial- or diplomatic-inclined dynasts had retained at least some of their ancestor’s bookish predilection.

As Róbert’s visit to Koutajoki and his conversations with Biellá and his kinsman Wizlaw had shown, the fame of the Rychnovských for their learning was not only well-rooted, but flourishing. Though the self-effacing Róbert often felt that he was merely riding the cloak-hem of his more illustrious and better-schooled forebears, he also understood that his role as paterfamilias demanded that he carefully cultivate his family’s scholarly reputation.

And this burnish upon the Rychnovský name had at least one rather unforeseen consequence.

Sjätopolk 2. of Podkarpatská, who was still under house arrest, begged an audience with the king from the guards of his domicile. He said that it was a matter of rather personal import. When Kráľ Róbert heard of this request from his prisoner, he was of half a mind to refuse off-hand. But his better nature won out, and soon he was facing his rebellious Russian vassal.

‘Hospoď, I understand well that I have no right to ask this. All I can do is to call upon the very ties of kinship which I trampled upon when I rose up in arms against you—and plead with you, as one father to another.’

‘I’m l—l—listening.’

‘It’s my son, Vasilko. My having been gone from Siget for so long, he has no one to watch over him. He could use a knowledgeable tutor. Would it be possible for you to—?’

‘H—huh—how old is your s—son?’

An indrawn breath. ‘Fifteen, Hospoď.’

Róbert folded his arms, and glared coldly at Sjätopolk. ‘At s—s—such an age, th—there’s lit—little enough I can d—do for the boy.’

‘Even so! Vasilko is not yet a man, and he needs a man’s guidance! Please!’

Once again, Róbert’s pity and desire to help the needy overcame all other objections. How could he turn away from a child whose father he’d taken from him in his crucial years, however just that punishment had been? He sighed.

‘V—very well. I will l—l—look after him muh—myself.’

‘Truly?!’ Sjätopolk was taken aback. ‘That’s… remarkably generous of you, Hospoď. I had been expecting you to apprentice him to one of your zbrojnoši, but if you’re willing to tutor him personally, so much the better! I’m deeply in your debt.’

Of course, Róbert couldn’t back out of a promise once he’d made it, however much he might regret it in hindsight. But he was given no cause. Vasilko Koceľuk had a forbidding look to him: wild, tow-coloured hair flying loose; a sharp, narrow, jutting chin; and a brow that suggested a permanent scowl. And even at the age of fifteen he had a couple of inches’ advantage on the Kráľ. But as soon as he opened his mouth he belied his own appearance. Vasilko turned out to be a gentle, meek, sweet-tempered youth, of the sort who didn’t want to hurt a fly if he could help it. He had a ready and giving hand even for the courtyard dogs and cats. Róbert found that he couldn’t have asked for a more agreeable ward, however short his wardship would be.

Unfortunately, as predicted, the lad was already rather set in his ways. There wasn’t much of a strategist Róbert could make of him: his temper was simply too gentle and easy-going for him to be able to take decisive action when required. But when it came to sparring and personal ado at arms, the Kráľ held out much better hope, and the fruits of even his six months’ training together with the king quickly became evident. Queen Mother Adriana’s lessons to him came doubly useful when it came to teaching Vasilko. The lad had a good eye, a good step and a good sense of balance. Unless Róbert was much mistaken, Vasilko Koceľuk would make every bit as fine a fighter as he himself was, if not more so.

~~~​

Ilse had something of a love-hate relationship with her husband’s trips abroad—whether to Syria or to Koutajoki. On the one hand, she missed him every second he was away, both for his companionship, and also for the little quirks of his (including the stammer!) that still endeared him to her. She never liked him parting from her for long.

On the other hand, though, Róbert had brought back with him from Syria that exquisite, delicate little filigree silver cross that stayed on her neck—not that she’d ever had much use for bishops and priests, but she could certainly appreciate the craftsmanship. And he had brought back with him from Koutajoki a number of topographical insights and strategic details that kept her mind occupied for weeks—she enjoyed looking over maps of Garðaríki and the Finnish lands with him, thinking up different scenarios that might result from a conflict, and seeing if there was any credible answer to Wizlaw’s challenge. And so even though she pouted and grieved when it came time for him to leave her side; Ilse always found reason for hope that he would come back to her with some new intellectual stimulation.

And, of course, intellectual stimulation went hand in hand with stimulation of other sorts. It was therefore little wonder when she became pregnant once again, three months after his return.

It was at this time that Robin became sorely tempted by another woman for the first time during his reign. Ilse was not one to observe the usual strictures on marital fasting during pregnancy, but even so, the burdens of bearing a child to term heightened some of her appetites while sickening others—and there were several months being with child that she had no desire whatever for coupling. Robin found himself exiled from his bed for much of that time.

In order to get his mind off of the natural urges he was forced to forgo satisfying, Kráľ Róbert called a hunt in a forest near Chýnov in southern Bohemia. Mostly it was just an excuse to get outside and ride. He soon left most of his hunting party behind him.

Some several miles west of Chýnov, the Kráľ came upon the sort of cottage that was often used by woodsmen while they were about their craft. A horse was tethered outside, and there was a curl of smoke from the chimney suggesting that the stove was lit. Róbert dismounted from his own horse, tied it up outside, and approached the cottage.

In the doorway there appeared a woman. Actually, not just any woman—she was the single most attractive beauty of Slavic stock that had ever graced Róbert’s organs of sight. Slender and willowy, she moved with what seemed to him a supernatural grace and poise. Her face was on the longer side, with pronounced cheekbones, but she had full lips and a straight, slender nose that seemed perfectly shapen for such a face. And the eyes which now peered inquisitively at him were a startling, sparkling sapphire-blue.

‘God greet you, milord,’ said she—in what would surely be a full, sonorous contralto in song.

‘G—G—Guh—God g—g—greet you,’ answered Róbert. He felt suddenly and painfully aware, once more, of the defect in his own speech.

‘You are out here alone?’ asked the woman.

Róbert nodded.

‘Well, come within,’ said she. ‘I don’t have much, but God teaches us to be hospitable to strangers. Please—partake of what I have, and rest awhile.’

Róbert did so gladly. He discovered that her name was Lesana, and that she belonged to the local gentry: her kin owned some land around Chýnov as freeholders.

‘My father did support Drahomír in his rebellion, sad to say. Most of the gentry around here did, in fact,’ Lesana said. ‘They saw it as only their rightful duty to support their immediate liege rather than the king. I’m glad, however, that the king was merciful to those taken in arms—he seems a very good man.’

(Róbert had not yet divulged his station to her, though she did know his name. He nodded.)

‘If you ask me, the rebels did have fair odds of victory. The Kráľ might have had mobile cannon on his side, and the assistance of the Nositelia, which allowed him to make short work of the sieges further north and west. But the rebels had troops armed with hakupušky: if they had used them to effect, they might well have won the battle at Brno.’

‘You f—f—follow m—military affairs?’

Lesana laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘More an idle hobby of mine than anything else. It’s not seemly for a woman to take such an interest in men’s affairs, I know—but my father had me tutored in matters of strategy from the classic books: Maurikios’s Stratēgikon, Leōn’s Taktika and so forth. War is a horrible thing, but it’s best to know how to win one as quickly and cleanly as possible.’

Róbert heartily agreed. How was it that he had so much in common with this woman?

The two of them talked deployments, manœuvres, different sorts of weaponry, different capabilities of different states, for hours. On occasion their eyes met, and when they did Róbert would feel a strong, magnetic compulsion within him that he hadn’t felt since the first days he had known Ilse. Lesana was truly exquisite… and she was friendly, and inviting, and very much by herself. There was nothing and no one to stop nature from taking its course between them. This thought teased at the edge of Róbert’s mind, and seemed more and more tantalising the more he came back to it. And there could be no mistaking that she was inviting him—those glances became more and more frequent; she was looking more and more hungrily at his lips. The sun went down.

‘I’m af—f—f—fr—fraid I must r—rejoin my hunting p—p—party,’ Róbert said at last.

Lesana turned those sapphire gems on him, sparkling with intensity. ‘Must you?’ she asked.

In later years, Róbert would thank God on his knees that He somehow managed to grant Róbert the inward strength to decline her invitation. At the time, it was a nigh-unbearable, excruciating effort—he starving for a woman’s touch as he was during Ilse’s pregnancy, and she so lovely and sweet and inviting—for him to recall his vows. How could it be wrong to make love to such a wondrous beauty as sat before him? Ilse wouldn’t know. None of his hunting party would know.

But Róbert would know. And God would know. That awareness yarked him back to his right senses, and helped him steel his heart rightly.

‘I f—f—fear I must,’ Róbert told her ruefully. ‘It was a true p—pleasure m—m—meeting you, Lesana. I h—hope we have the opp—p—pp—pportunity to talk s—strategy again.’

 

[Revan86]

Will it be the natural end of 1453 or the natural beginning of 1444? I have no idea how a peacock tastes, but I do know that it can make a horrible noise almost as bad as a guinea. Thank you

It will be the natural end of 1453.

I don't think I've heard a peacock's call before, though I have seen feral peafowl when I was in Guangxi Province in China. (Wouldn't say they were 'wild', because they were in a public park, but they also certainly weren't kept by humans for food or feathers.)

 

[Midnite Duke]

Thanks for 1453, two additional chapters (at least). Guompa does not sound as bad as gumppus. Blood dishes do not sound appealing to me, but the color of guompa could be bad. Thanks

 

[filcat]

[link]

Hunter hunted. <enter toasting meme>

Fantastic. Cheers for letting discover this gem of a band.

Unlimited - Encyclopaedia Metallum: The Metal Archives

 

[Revan86]

SIXTEEN
Ride the Dragon
25 September 1426 – 20 June 1428

The child who was born in June of the Year of the World 6934 was another boy, whom Robin and Ilse named Siloš—a little lad whose delicate crown of ginger wisps thus far promised in maturity to be every bit as auburn as his father.

And after his dry spell, Robin lost no time whatsoever in leaping back into bed with Ilse. Thankfully the Queen had well and fully regained her proper appetites. Robin and Ilse took their time with lips and fingers, stimulating each other’s orifices and protrusions, before bringing themselves together in the familiar clasp. And two months later, Ilse was once more with child.

This one, however, met the evil fate that so many unborn children do. Ilse tried to take this in stride. She knew full well on an intellectual level how many pregnancies ended in miscarriage. However, there was no way she could have steeled herself for losing her own.

After Helene, Vojtech, Robin and Siloš she had already begun to imagine what the fifth would look like, how the fifth would speak—and she had shared these dreams with her children. Naturally she had no illusions about any kind of merciful providence in this world, but it was still a blow to have those dreams so suddenly and so coldly torn from her.

However, the first and the second were fast growing up before their parents’ eyes.

Helene, it seemed, had developed a grudging and suspicious nature, and she rarely volunteered any information or took anyone into confidence—not even her own father, which somewhat hurt Róbert. But in spite of that, it seemed that she had a good heart. She eagerly assisted her father with any relief or service efforts he organised in Olomouc or in the surrounding countryside, and contributed from her own allowance of silver to such corporal works of mercy.

Helene’s suspicious streak was perhaps inflamed by her younger brother. Vojtech, Róbert was most displeased to learn, had developed a penchant for falsehoods and deception. The little boy was possessed of some formidable gifts: he had his great-grandfather Ostromír’s good looks (though his dark-hair-and-fair-skin colouration was more similar to his grandmother Adriana’s), as well as his mother’s native curiosity and creativity. This was a particularly dangerous combination in his case, as it meant that most of the time he could get away with anything. And he took advantage of the fact.

In several games, pranks and such, Vojtech had made his elder sister the butt… and in some cases, the scapegoat, when things went south. The sneaky little devil also knew how to play innocent and turn on the waterworks when needed. He was clever enough to fool most of the court, although Róbert was a keen enough observer of his son to have suspicions about Vojtech’s involvement.

It had been during one of Ludovít’s visits that Vojtech had finally been caught red-handed, trying to sneak one of the visiting baron’s effects out of a chest that Ludovít had brought to Olomouc. It was a rather meaningless trinket—a personal drinking-vessel, in point of fact. Róbert could tell that a storm of tears was coming and that he was already planning to plant the blame on Helene or some other child, when he glowered down at his son with grim intent.

‘Think c—c—c—carefully what you s—say next, chlapec.’

Seeing his father’s eyes boring implacably into him, Vojtech did reconsider his tale carefully.

‘I did it. I did it on my own,’ he hung his head. ‘I thought I could get away with it. I’m sorry.’

Róbert unfolded his arms and regarded his son with greater kindness. ‘W—w—words have n—never c—come easy to me. It’s b—b—best to choose them with c—care. S—speak only those that are t—t—true.’

Vojtech took that lesson to heart. It didn’t warm his sister up to him—that would take a much longer time. But at least he no longer told such brazen lies, or attempted to get his friends and peers into trouble for his own pranks.

Ludovít, as it turned out, was in Olomouc on business. And that business was diplomacy.

‘Lord Kráľ,’ said the barón, ‘As you know, Znojmo lies upon the river Dyje, and does important commerce with regions south and west—with the Rakúšania. By your leave, liege, I have some proposals for building meeting-halls and guest-houses along the relevant stretch of the Dyje, to foster better relations with our nemecky neighbours. It could only be to our mutual advantage—especially with the Carpathians pushing so hard against our southern marches!’

‘It’s a g—guh—good thought,’ Róbert acknowledged, stroking his beard. ‘D—do you have p—pp—plans in ppf—p—place already?’

At that, Barón Ludovít grinned and unfurled a long sheet of vellum—which turned out to be a very carefully-drawn map of the stretch of the Dyje which lay upon the border between Moravia and Tirol. He pointed to the spots he’d marked upon it, which were the most suitable for meeting embassies from the Bavarian lands.

‘V—very well,’ Róbert told him with a firm nod. ‘You h—ha—have ch—charge of this p—project, Ludovít. Take g—gr—great care; for th—this impacts matters of s—st—t—tate.’

‘My liege is most kind and understanding,’ Ludovít bowed.

~~~​

‘OOOOOTEEEEEEC!’

Bells clanged and whistles blew inside the Kráľ’s brain as it was yarked abruptly out of dreamland and into waking life by the shriek. Róbert forced one of his sleepy eyes open, as next to him Ilse let out a moan of sleepy frustration and tugged the sheets up over her tousled blonde head. This was clearly a ‘Dad’ problem, not a ‘Mum’ problem. She was going back to sleep.

In front of Róbert, there swam into his sleep-smeared vision the rosy, blonde-framed, excited face of his daughter. Helene was eagerly tugging the sheets back away from her father.

‘Veď sneží!’ cried Helene. ‘Come! Come quick and see!’

Sure enough, as Róbert rose in the chill on that January morning, just after the Christmas feast had ended, and looked out the window of his Bruntál estate—what else greeted his eyes but a clean, thick, soft blanket of pearly white outside? Snow had indeed fallen, and was still coming down from the heavens, quieter than a cat’s paw.

‘Otec, I want to go sledding,’ begged Helene, tugging at her father’s arm. ‘I’ve already picked out a tray from the kitchen—the big wooden one from Brno.’

‘The wuh—one w—with the drag—g—gon seal on the b—buh—bottom,’ Róbert nodded groggily, rubbing his eyes.

‘Please, Otec? Please?’

Róbert sighed. ‘Al—l—alright,’ he stammered with a yawn. ‘I’ll b—be along.’

The Kráľ got another tray to match Helene’s Brno-made one, and the two of them donned winter weeds and went out into the snow together.

The two of them had a marvellous time speeding and coursing down the slopes of the hills surrounding Bruntál on the makeshift sleds, Helene whooping for joy every time they hit a bump and went flying. Róbert chuckled and cheered right along with her as they picked up speed and skidded headlong through piled drifts. Róbert’s beard was soon as white as that of Saint Nicholas—a fact Helene was quick to point out with a laugh, her cheeks even rosier than usual from cold and excitement.

The King of Moravia came to be happy that he’d been awakened so suddenly by his daughter. These moments at play with her were precious and they would not come back. He delighted in sharing that exhilaration and simple joy with her. The realities of rule would come to him again—much sooner, in fact, than he anticipated.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Sledding fun and Vojtech learning a lesson. Thanks

 

[Revan86]

SEVENTEEN
March for Revenge (by the Soldiers of Death)
18 March 1429 – 25 August 1431
​

It was in early March of that year, that the Despot Ioustantinos of Thessalia set his sights upon the black walls of the ancient Mesopotamian city of Âmid, which was then called by its Arabic name, Diyâr Bakr.

Âmid, yclept of the Greeks Amida, had been a settled city as long as history had been written. The great city, ringed about with its dark walls of basalt, had been inhabited first by the Jebusites, and then conquered by a succession of mighty kingdoms after them: the Amorites, the Akkadians, the Kingdom of Ararat… then the Armenians, the Persians and the Kurds, all long before it came to be contested between the Greeks of Thessalia and the Arabs of the Levant.

The people of Âmid, although ruled from the Persian-speaking town of Mawṣil, were still largely the same descendants of the Jebusites and Amorites and Akkadians who had lived there since ancient times. Their history was written, so it was said, in the black stones; their fathers, their fathers’ fathers, and their fathers’ fathers’ fathers—as far back as they could remember, had all been born, lived, worked, died within these basalt walls. They spoke Arabic of their local variety, and also Aramaic. Religiously, they belonged to a number of different confessions. There were Christians—both Orthodox of the Greek Rite, and Miaphysite of the Syriac. There were Muslims—mostly Shî‘a, belonging to the ‘Alawî and ‘Ismâ‘îli schools. There were a handful of Kurdish Mazdaeans, and there was a small but important community of Haredi Jews.

Ioustinianos claimed to be acting on behalf of the city’s Christian populace, and on behalf of the ancient episcopal see of Âmid, to which had belonged Saint Ephraim the Patriarch. It was doubtful in the extreme whether the Arabic- and Aramaic-speaking Christians of Âmid welcomed a ruler (Christian or not) bringing the fires of war to their homes. More likely the Despot was aiming to expand his own territory and recoup the prestige that the Eastern Roman Empire had lost with the Bishopric of Amida.

At any rate, given that Ioustinianos was related to Kráľ Róbert by marriage, it was natural for him to call upon the Moravian king in time of war. Said king answered. So too did the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre. The armies of Moravia made ready to march.

~~~​

Ilse wrapped herself again in her Robin’s embrace, her fingers tightening again on his bare arm and drawing it in closer against her breasts. The sweet saturating haze of orgasm was ebbing out of her, leaving behind it the cold reality that Robin was leaving again. And he was going to war. She had only these last few moments of warmth with him, and she was going to savour them for all they were worth. Because who knew if she would ever have them again? Ilse heaved a sigh.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the circumstances, and it wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the art. Military strategy had been her training, after all, and she had been happy to assist Robin in his further education in the subject. But the reasoning for the current war—Ilse never having been one for religious sentiments—seemed so flimsy. Despot Ioustinianos’s claim seemed so ad hoc. And the stakes in this fight seemed so far off for such a personal commitment. She had rehearsed the objection in her mind over and over again, and she knew exactly what Robin’s answer would be.

Her husband—however much it frustrated her and piqued her admiration—would accompany his soldiers into battle himself. He would share their fate. Not for bloodlust, not for gain, not for glory: but because his own scruples couldn’t countenance asking someone beneath him to fight a battle he wouldn’t join himself.

The Queen rose from her bed and checked everything again. On her desk there were several written and sealed receipts. She knew that Robin would be heading into the desert during the summer, and so she had contracted with several Thessalian merchants to supply the Moravian army with melons and gherkins during the summer months, and with plentiful meats during the winter months. Hot and dry conditions were noisome, but cold and dry conditions were truly dangerous. Best to keep any foul conditions away through healthy eating first—the best remedy for any disease was to have balanced humours. She also ensured that her husband had a good supply of clean, light, undyed linens to wear.

‘Up so s—soon?’

Ilse smiled, not turning around. ‘Someone has to look after you.’

Robin hugged her from behind. Once again Ilse clasped his arms around her, and basked in the warmth of his torso on her bare back—skin and skin, with nothing between. She would miss that sorely, these coming months. Robin spoke again. ‘You have been l—looking after me.’

‘For all the good it will do.’ Despite the lightness in Ilse’s tone, there was a bitterness there that she couldn’t wholly disguise. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’

‘So do I,’ Robin told her. He squeezed her tighter.

Despite this, Kráľ Róbert marched to the mustering-grounds with the whole of his družnosť and every last one of his zbrojnoši, gathering for the march to the Eastern Roman-controlled Black Sea port of Kjustendža, from whence the armed traffic from Moravia into the Levant had historically been wont to travel. The going would have to be watchful, for Carpathia was presently in the midst of one of its usual seismic succession crises between roughly half a dozen different Detvanský and Árpád dynasts.

The Euxine march was, however, quite uneventful; the sailing from Kjustendža was clear and bright with a helpful tailwind for most of the way, and the Moravians made landfall in Issos by May.

Robin had only just made land in the Thessalian-held Levantine lands when he received an epistle from home, from the Queen. He could tell that she had forgiven him… slightly… by the degree to which she waxed familiar on the frequency of her urination and the difficulty of her bowel movements. Ilse might be prim and proper with people she didn’t know, but Robin alone she trusted enough to give full vent to her scatological glee. But soon he came to the line:

‘Μάτια μου, Ι find I am sore in some wonted spots, and my last blood has overlooked me. Come back soon. You may have a new son or daughter awaiting you. If you don’t come back before she’s born, by the way, the right to name her is mine.’

~~~​

The first engagement of Moravian troops in the Thessalian War for Amida was actually a defensive one. The Persian ‘Amîr al-‘Umrâ’ of Mawṣil had not taken the declaration lying down; he had moved swiftly in force against Ḥarrân, and had actually managed to capture the city away from Despot Ioustinianos in short order, even as Thessaly’s armies were taking on the arc of Mawṣil’s fortifications to the north. As he pored over the maps of the region that the Greeks had provided him, Róbert had to acknowledge with a grim smile the strategic acumen of the Persian commanders. Ḥarrân was not only an important stronghold linking Asia Minor to the Levant; it was also a city with deep significance to the Christian faith, and its loss was a strong blow to the morale of Orthodox defenders throughout the border regions.

Róbert marched the Moravians eastwards from Issos and inland toward Ḥarrân in order to retake the city. The ‘Amîr of Mawṣil had sent one of his Bedouin lieutenants to make fast the city’s defences and reinforce the garrison, and he was in the process of doing so when the Moravians arrived. It was to his loss that his men, some forty thousand in number, were split between the duties of reinforcing the city and moving against the next Thessalian target. Róbert caught them in the middle.

The battle was joined outside the gates of Ḥarrân, and the Moravian Kráľ—against the advice of his new maršal, his former ward Vasilko Koceľuk—chose to attack the offensive force rather than the defensive one. This meant that, although the twenty thousand he engaged were fewer in number, they had a more significant contingent of aswârân—eighteen of them to sixteen of Róbert’s družinniki—and larger numbers of men at arms. This offensive force was also at a marked advantage for cavalry! They had not only heavy and light riders on Arabian coursers, but also armoured camels with spears that were not to be slighted on account of their comparative slowness. Conditions were not in the favour of the traditional armoured zbrojnoši as well as the light archers on the Moravian side.

But with the Muṣlâwî forces split, the Moravians had the upper hand solely on account of sheer number. The Moravian riders harried the flanks with feinting actions in order to give the Johanite houfnice a chance to set up behind their mobile barricades; and then the main bulk of Róbert’s foot troops moved forward.

The roaring blasts from the wheeled cannon had the advantage of both spooking the Arabian coursers and thinning the Muṣlâwî lines before the Moravians met them. Multiple points of entry opened up as the two armies clashed. The Muṣlâwiyyin fought bravely and with great zeal, and the defenders soon joined to reinforce their ranks. But there was little that the armies of the ‘Amîr could do against such odds—and facing off against a strategic mind like Róbert’s. The Kráľ’s uncle Radomír even managed to unhorse one enemy uswâr and grab his vane in the midst of the fighting. Once that happened there was little else that the Muslims could do. The lines broke. Róbert held up his hands and allowed the Muslims to retreat with dignity… though they had still lost over twelve thousand men to death or desertion.

When Róbert entered Ḥarrân, the Christian Ḥarrâniyyin greeted the Moravian king with great cheers, and praised God for their deliverance. Songs and shouts of ‘Rûbirt al-‘Âqwiyâ’! Rûbirt tibârak Allâh! Aṭ-Ṭâyir ‘Aḥmar aṣ-Ṣadr alaḏî yuġnî ḵalâṣ al-Masîḥ!’ rang through the streets, and the men and women of Ḥarrân broke into dances as he passed by them on horseback. But Róbert meekly handed the vane of Ḥarrân back to the captain of the Thessalian garrison, after which he knelt before an icon of the Protection of the Mother of God and venerated it. Such a gesture, far from belittling the glory of his victory, rather magnified it, having dedicated it to She whose soul magnifies the Lord.

There was little time, however, for Róbert to rest on his laurels. He moved about half of his troops off to the northeast to help Despot Ioustinianos besiege Tall Basmah and Âmid itself. He wasn’t planning on ‘Amîr al-‘Umrâ’ Manûčihr himself taking to the field and moving against Ḥarrân from the southeast. Now the tables had turned as the Moravians were in the same situation as they’d put the Muṣlâwiyyin in at Ḥarrân. The Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre, who had a reputation to protect and uphold, volunteered to lead the forward action toward Tall Maḥrâ—a fastness placed at a natural chokepoint from which Ḥarrân could be defended against Manûčihr’s men.

‘That is u—un—unwise,’ Róbert had stammered.

‘Kráľ,’ the Grandmaster said, ‘we will go forward with or without your order, in God’s name. Time is of the essence. We must seize the Tál for Christ before the Hagarenes can use it as a staging-ground for another attack on Ḥarrân!’

Róbert reluctantly allowed them to go. The Brothers had two units of heavily-armoured armigers and a smaller contingent of cataphracts, while Manûčihr’s commander Farrûḵ once again brought a more significant force of riders, both heavy and light, armed with lances and javelins. Farrûḵ and the Brothers each had twenty thousand men arrayed on either side of the Tall. Messengers kept Kráľ Róbert informed of the battle’s progress through the day as he brought up the reinforcements from the rear. The reports he got were discouraging.

‘How fare the Brothers?’ asked Róbert.

‘They are holed up on several high positions around the Tál,’ the messenger told the king. ‘But they are hard put to last against the harrying attacks of the Hagarene cavalry. Despite their deluded and demonic beliefs, the Saracens are well-disciplined. They are used to fighting in this dry, hot climate, as our men are not.’

Not for the first time, Róbert silently thanked his wife for the shipments of melon and gherkin which she’d taken care to arrange for his troops. The cool, wet foods did an admirable job of staving off disease in the waxing summer months. Even so, to actually fight in this dry, rocky region was another matter entirely.

‘Tell the Grandmaster that we shall be with him soon. Already we are praying for his victory.’

The messenger nodded his head, turned back and rode off again in a cloud of dust. Victory at Tall Maḥrâ, however, was by no means assured. Róbert made the best pace he could for the remainder of the three days’ road south between Ḥarrân and Tall Maḥrâ. However, on the end of the second day—near Tall ‘Abyaḍ—Róbert was taken by surprise by a small Muṣlâwî force of six thousand arriving from the west.

‘Brother!’ shouted Vojtech Rychnovský, ‘It’s the banner of the ‘Amîr al-‘Umrâ’ and his clan!’

Indeed, at the head of these six thousand Muṣlâwiyyin was Manûčihr, as well as his brother Zakariyyâ. They were well within view now. They had been waiting in ambush in order to split Róbert’s troops. This is what Róbert had feared: the Brothers had made a critical error in rushing forward to Tall Maḥrâ. Although Manûčihr was leading what was essentially a sacrificial force, with it he could at least delay Róbert’s progress long enough for the main force led by Farrûḵ to gain the victory over the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre. It was a clever move—it wouldn’t regain them Ḥarrân, but it would easily rob Ioustinianos of half of the Moravian force he’d been counting on.

Róbert rode forward, together with one of his local Ḥarrânî translators. On the Muṣlâwî side, so too did Manûčihr Ḥamdamzâdeh. Moravian Kráľ and Persian ‘Amîr al-‘Umrâ’ regarded each other with mingled hostility, curiosity and grudging respect. Two master strategists sizing each other up.

‘My brother,’ said Manûčihr, ‘would have us not attack you here—against my own better judgement. He believes it is the will of God that the battle should be decided at once at Tall Maḥrâ. I am prepared to make you, in that case, an offer. Our troops shall accompany you all the way to the Tall—not one hand shall we raise against you along the way. Once there, I shall join my side and you, of course, shall join yours. Then truly we shall see which side is favoured of Allâh. What say you?’

Róbert narrowed his eyes. ‘Th—that is a m—most drightly and j—juh—generous offer, ‘Amîr. A—a—a. Rrrgh. I a—accept, an—and I sh—sh—shall remember it of you, th—that you sh—showed ch—shh—chivalry and honour this day.’

(Thankfully, the Ḥarrânî speaker was likewise generous, and chose not to relate the Kráľ’s stammer.)

And so it happened that a Christian army and Muslim army marched side by side in peace from Tall ‘Abyaḍ south to Tall Maḥrâ, until they could join their respective sides and face each other in battle honestly. Even with the new reinforcements on each side, it was anyone’s guess as to which side would carry the day, for the Moravians had lost more men than the Muṣlâwiyyin, and now the match was odds-on with twelve thousand able-bodied men on a side, fifteen družinniki against sixteen aswârân, and an even number of armigers and specialised troops on either side. The houfnice of the Johanité were of little avail in this battle, as the Brothers had already staked out all the defensible positions—at least the barricades came in handy, though.

All day long both sides fought each other. It seemed that the God of Abraham and Moses had not yet decided to show His hand, for although the sun blazed its broiling track high across the limpid desert sky, it seemed that the time stood nearly still. The Kráľ’s brother Vojtech fell in the fighting; he would not be able to use his leg rightly again after. The sand and the stone were stained dark beneath the two striving armies—though with whose blood, Christian or Muslim or both mingled together, could not be told. At last, the vane of the ‘Amîr al-‘Umrâ’ took a sudden motion from the left of Róbert’s shimmering field of vision across to the right. It was no mirage. The Muslim army was moving off. The Christians were left holding the Tall. Once again Róbert had striven, and Allâh had vindicated him.

~~~​

The Thessalian War for Amida continued. Ioustinianos continued his long campaigns of siege in the north of Mesopotamia, while the Moravian Army did most of the fighting in the south, along the East Anatolian Fault. There were two more major engagements between the Moravians and the Persian Muṣlâwiyyin—one at Tall ‘Ammâr in the province of Syria, and one at Tall Baṣmah in Mesopotamia.

The Muslims had the clear advantage of numbers at Tall ‘Ammâr. However, some quick thinking by the Kráľ and a unit of reinforcements six thousand strong—for Róbert had learned well from his opponent’s tactics—swung that battle in the Moravians’ favour.

By the time the Moravians joined the fight against the Muṣlâwiyyin at Tall Baṣmah, Ioustinianos had already managed to capture most of the north of the Mesopotamian theme. Al-Bakriyyah, Mayyâfâriqîn and the Wilâyat Hakkârî had all fallen to Thessaly’s armies. The war was all but over.

Once again the Muslims had the advantage of numbers, and it was only on account of another reinforcement from the rear that the Moravians were able to level the field to a fighting chance. But when the final reckoning was made, the Muslims were once again forced to beat a retreat from the field.

Róbert gained much standing throughout the Muslim world as a master tactician and worthy adversary. He was regarded by the Ḥarrâniyyin as a hero. His reputation among the Christians of Mesopotamia, though, was more ambivalent… at least at first. He was a foreigner, and a warlike one at that—and he had upset the delicate balance that the Christians of the Middle East had always had to toe. It could still turn out very badly for them. But as Ioustinianos’s rule wore on, their evaluation of Róbert became a little kinder. It wouldn’t be until the publication (and translation into Arabic) of Príbehy kajúceho pútnika, that the Arab Christians of Mesopotamia would come to regard Róbert with any uniform degree of positive feeling.

Manûčihr Ḥamdamzâdeh was forced to cede northern Mesopotamia entirely to Ioustinianos; and Róbert once again—happily—returned to Olomouc.

 

[Midnite Duke]

What melons and gherkins? Thank you

 

[Revan86]

What melons and gherkins? Thank you

When I got the 'looking after me' mini-event, I thought Ilse would be trying to find foods she could send with her husband's troops that would aid their health.

According to the humourist medical theory of the time, melons and cucumbers are 'cool, wet' foods which can counteract the effects of a 'hot, dry' climate. Hence why she chose to contract with locals to send those two specific foods with her husband's army on campaign in Mesopotamia.

 

[Revan86]

EIGHTEEN
Secret of Steel
24 September 1431 – 21 September 1433
​

A lot had happened in Róbert’s absence from Olomouc.

First: Helene had come of age. The girl who had accompanied her father throughout her life had seemingly taken to scholarship (as most Rychnovských who touched the subject did) as a fish to water. Róbert hadn’t even yet arrived at home before he had begun to think about her future, and what sort of marriage she should make.

Second: Ilse had borne him another son—this one, she had named (as she said she would) in his absence after her late father: Totil. This new son of theirs was as blond as his maternal grandfather and namesake had been, and as his mother was; though his nose, cheeks and chin were all the image of his father. It would have been difficult to imagine a more joyful reunion than that between the Moravian Kráľ and his Scando-Taurican consort.

Third: the Kráľ had (somewhat belatedly) come to a unique and fervent appreciation for two of his close advisors. Vasilko Koceľuk had more than proven his worth in battle; Róbert understood quite well that the victories for which he had been showered in glory and fame would have been impossible without Vasilko’s skilful mustering and tight discipline. Even though the office of maršal had been a perennial investiture of the kniežatá of Podkarpatská, Vasilko had never taken that office for granted. Ever grateful to the king who had shown mercy on his father and taken him under his wing, he had always attended to his duties with conscientiousness and scruple.

And Robin’s triumphs in support of Despot Ioustantinos had also been owing to Kvetoslava Mikulčicková, the Kňažná of Nitra—even though she had been well behind the front lines and working to keep matters in order in Olomouc. Róbert was well-schooled enough in the arts of supplying an army to understand that careful stewardship at home was more than half of the reason for any army’s success. And despite the traitorous ambitions of her ancestors and ancestresses, Kvetoslava herself had proven not only loyal but more than competent in this service of the Crown.

Kráľ Róbert gave generous gifts to both of his valued advisors upon his return to Olomouc. To Vasilko he gave a magnificent commissioned sword, custom-fitted to Vasilko’s grip, with an enamel inlay featuring the Koceľuk crest—and he presented it himself, as a foster-father to a ward. Vasilko gripped the Kráľ in a tight hug in thanks, and there were tears of joy in his eyes as he examined the treasure he’d been given. And Róbert had another opportunity to show his appreciation to his šafár.

It so happened that they were on another hunt, and Kvetoslava had come with them, and the two of them had spotted a prize buck which leapt at once into flight and darted off into the underbrush. Robin and Kvetoslava gave chase, but unfortunately Kvetoslava’s horse reared and flung her off, straight backwards into a bramble. Robin looked back, aghast. Clearly the fall had done more damage than the bramble’s prickers, but the first thing he did was dismount and go to her side, and draw her clear of the uncomfortable bedding she was in. He then personally wrapped her wounds.

‘The hart…’ she said weakly, ‘will get away…’

‘One h—hart!’ Robin told her gruffly. ‘Wh—what’s that c—com—compared to a l—loyal vassal’s l—life and limb?’

The elderly kňažná was touched. Deeply. Not five months later, at the Lord’s Pascha, she held a grand feast in the king’s honour, in part as thanks for this act of chivalry. Needless to say, she pulled out all the stops—and Robin enjoyed himself immensely at her banquet hall in Nitra.

Once again he saw the hraběnka Bohumila, seated not far from him, and he recalled the heated discussion they’d had once before on battle tactics—which the Kráľ had somewhat used to his advantage to deter any possible Carpathian designs on the southern border. His conscience bothered him about that—he determined that he should apologise to her as soon as he got the opportunity.

As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered. Not only was Bohumila more than willing to say ‘čo bolo, bolo’ over the whole affair, but she was also remarkably keen to discuss with the king various tactics to use in personal combat. She was indeed eager to hear what he had to say on the subject, Robin having come back from engagements in battle with the Saracens, and being able to deliver an opinion with some weight behind it on the subject of the comparative merits of the European broadsword versus the Persian šamšîr.

‘I’d imagine that legwork is really important in matching a broadsword against a sabre,’ Bohumila mused thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got to slip the leg fairly often, I imagine, when parrying a blow from one of the Hagarene swords, no?’

‘Th—that’s quite t—true,’ Robin nodded. Far from disparaging a woman’s knowledge of arms, his closeness and familiarity with Ilse—who understood weapons of all sorts as well as strategy—had given him a measured degree of appreciation for women’s ability in that field. Clearly Bohumila had intuited a fact of ado at arms there that he’d had to learn by raw experience.

That conversation with Bohumila stayed with the Kráľ for a long time afterward. He felt he had to do better at training with weapons—and, more importantly, specialising in a weapon—in order to make the best use of his abilities and stand the best chance against opponents. A military man would do well to convince the steel to give up its secret to him, at least in part.

~~~​

Kráľ Róbert had his alliances with Carpathia and with Thessaly, but he firmly desired to retain his great-grandfather’s and grandfather’s traditional alignment with Great Rus’. Rus’ now had a new king named Lev Kirillovič—who, like Róbert, was of an even-handed and honest temperament. Both men were grandsons of Kráľ Ostromír, as well, which made them first cousins. There was between them a natural sympathy of temper which made the resulting bargain that much easier to strike.

‘Koňečno,’ Lev Kirillovič said to Robin as the two of them matched drinks over the banquet table. ‘It would be my honour to match my daughter to your son! But you would agree it only fair for me to match my younger to one of your younger.’

‘Oh, c—c—certainly!’ Robin slurred. ‘I c—com—completely understand!’

‘Let it be Ľudmila, then!’ Lev leaned forward, his meaty, florid face grinning. ‘Let her be matched to your Siloš! They are of similar age—it will bode well for them!’

To this Róbert agreed readily. The agreement betrothing the two second cousins to each other was thus formalized before Lev left once more toward his principality.

The Kráľ made arrangements as well for Helene. Somehow or other, the female komitissa of Issos, Margarita, had landed herself with a German husband, and they had gotten between them a son named—of all things—Adalgod. Upon meeting him, the Král found the half-Bavarian, half-Cilician Greek boy to be quite personable, well-mannered, polite. And Helene liked him well enough, it seemed. The match of Helene to Adalgod was made with relatively little fuss.

The alliances continued to proliferate. Róbert’s newfound fame on account of his bold and decisive exploits in Mesopotamia had spread well beyond those lands, and it soon came to pass that the free city of Sadec, whose mistress at this time was the elderly Pravdomila, sought once more the protection and patronage of the Moravian crown—merely as an alliance, rather than as a vassalage, but Pravdomila had no qualms about appealing to this shared history. Once again, Róbert found he could not easily refuse.

A bit more troublesome was what to do about Vojtech.

Vojtech, although he was a deeply sensitive and honest young man, also felt keenly the burnings and the pangs of young-manhood. And being a prince, he wasn’t exactly lacking for female attention. Róbert found to his chagrin that his son, even at fourteen years of age, was already beckoning the Olomouc palace maids to his room for… services of a carnal variety.

This rather miffed the just Róbert. Róbert had never felt the need of a mistress—though that was likely because Ilse was happy to provide whatever he asked for. And even palace maids had reputations to protect. Dalliances with a prince, however thrilling and sweet they might seem in the short run, would never exactly end well for them.

And so Róbert harshly chastised his son, kept him under confinement, and informed the palace staff that only menfolk were to attend Vojtech. He also took the extraordinary step of breaking off Vojtech’s engagement to Hedwig, the young daughter of Árpád Prelimír. That did him no favours as far as diplomacy with Carpathia went. But Róbert couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief. Vojtech, with his Rychnovský blood boiling in him, would need—so Róbert the attentive father felt—an experienced, strong-willed older woman to wife. It would do no good to expose Árpád Hedwig to that kind of heartbreak.

~~~​

Inspired by his conversation with Bohumila, Róbert began in earnest to experiment with different weapons and with different styles of fighting. He worked with the sword, the sabre, the mace, the shepherd’s-axe. On account of his short stature, he very nearly ended up choosing the spear to specialise in—a weapon that would afford him the greatest reach. He also carefully considered a number of different polearms and long-hafted axes. But there wasn’t quite the element of surprise to these sorts of weapons. A man stepping onto the battlefield against him would expect Róbert to be familiar with the spear or with a polearm.

It was at that point that Róbert’s eye fell upon a horseman’s pick—a hammer-type weapon which could be used either mounted or on foot, the head of which was meant to puncture and tear armour.

Róbert picked up the hammer. The shaft was about the length of his arm, and the head had a nice, solid weight to it. He gave the thing a couple of experimental swings—then dropped into the swordsman’s stance that his mother Adriana had drilled into him from youth. He quickly found that, far from being the weapon of a brute, the hammer was a tool whose weight and momentum in fact suggested fluid motion and grace. He executed a long, strong series of flowing strikes against several imagined foes. Each time, he understood that the whole of the weapon’s force could be brought to bear on a single point—but the motion of the weapon and the location of his grip could set that point wherever he liked. Róbert found with a bit more experimenting that he could slide his hand up and down the grip in mid-motion, in order to hide the focus of the hammer’s payload until the last second.

Róbert was discovering that the steel-headed hammer, with its grace, its versatility and its element of surprise—was just the sort of weapon he could imagine himself specialising in. This was indeed a weapon with which he could delve into the secrets of personal combat.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Vojtech is starting early. Some older women will be so excited to have a young husband that they will turn a blind eye to his dalliances. Thanks

 

[Revan86]

NINETEEN
The Warrior’s Prayer
22 November 1433 – 20 February 1436​

In November of the Year of the World 6943, Kráľ Róbert commissioned a Bohemian-style war-hammer for his personal use. He hired a blacksmith from Great Rus’ to forge the head, langets and fastenings in bulat steel of the highest quality. The head was designed to be twenty-five per cent above the standard weight, and fashioned in the shape of the claw of a bird-of-prey. The handle and grips were about ten per cent longer than standard for ease of handling (and for extension of Róbert’s reach!). The magnificent weapon which emerged from the forge and the blacksmith’s bucket, and gleamed in Róbert’s hand when it was presented to him, was named Pazúr: that is, Talon.

The following February, a guest arrived at Olomouc, at the Kráľ’s request, from Mukačevo. She was a young woman—and by her plain homespun dress was clearly not of noble birth. As she entered the great hall and approached the king, Róbert took the young woman’s measure.

The young woman looked, to Róbert’s slight disappointment, altogether plain. The two things that were notable about her were her fair unblemished skin, and her lustrous dark auburn hair, which she wore in a single, thick braid. Besides that—she had a round face, thick brows, slightly pouchy cheeks, a broad chin, deep nasolabial folds, and a nose with a slight hook. Her features were regular and symmetrical, but her looks were clearly not to every man’s tastes.

At the same time, in the straightness and seriousness of her step, as well as the graceful way she held herself, there was a quiet dignity to this young woman that beauty alone could not always achieve. Despite her mean birth, she might well give lessons to high-born ladies on how to present themselves.

‘S—s—step forward, ch—child,’ bade Róbert.

The young woman stepped forward and courtesied deeply to the king and the queen.

‘Y—you are P—Pp—Predslava?’

‘So I am called, O Hospoď,’ said the girl meekly.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ asked Ilse of the girl, gently.

‘I was told only that it was a matter of delicacy, my Queen.’

Róbert gazed at Predslava. He decided that it would be best to broach the subject with her honestly. ‘M—my son and heir, P—Predslava, has p—pp—proven to be s—somewhat disappointing. H—he’s a c—clever lad, and k—kindly. B—but he is g—given to certain v—vices of the flesh.’

‘Milord,’ Predslava kept her composure admirably, but couldn’t quite hide a slight shiver.

‘I m—mean nothing unt—t—to—toward,’ Róbert told her, flushing a bit beneath his beard. ‘B—but I c—cannot b—betroth him to a y—younger woman, or a woman of st—st—tt—tanding.’

Predslava nodded. Like many commoners in Podkarpatská, she had heard of the breaking of the prince’s betrothal to the Carpathian princess, though she was obviously not privy to the reasons for it.

Ilse reassured the girl: ‘Think of this not as something you must do, or are bidden to do. We only ask. You must feel free to say us nay, on whatever grounds. Our son still needs a wife. I hope you understand the est such a match would bring to you.’

Predslava was somewhat taken aback. Clearly she had been expecting something far different and less welcome. ‘I shall have to speak to my mother about it.’

‘Of c—course,’ said the Kráľ.

‘You needn’t worry about the rest, though, O Hospoď,’ Predslava told him decidedly, and with admirable candour. ‘I know how to handle a… shall we say, “ruttish”?… teenage boy.’

‘K—keep him on a t—t—taut leash,’ Róbert smiled.

‘Just so. Hospoď.’

Róbert considered her again. True, looks-wise she was no great catch, and no noble alliances would spring from her union with Vojtech—but she clearly had other virtues and talents worthy of consideration. ‘G—go then,’ he told her. ‘Sp—pp—peak with your m—mother. G—give us an answer wh—when you think best.’

When she left, Róbert asked Ilse: ‘What did you th—think of her?’

‘You know my mind already, Bertík,’ Ilse reminded him gently. ‘I told you I feared she’d be out of her rightful stead here. I still think so. Yet this Predslava has good sense, and firmness—and our Vojtech needs both. You needn’t worry about me standing in her way, if she takes up your offer.’

~~~

The Despot of Thessalia once again declared war on one of his Islâmic neighbours. This time, he was going to war against the Armenian Patriarch Mihrdat Nardian of Vaspurakan. And once again, Kráľ Róbert was called upon to aid the Thessalonians.

Despite having fought there before, and being familiar with the fractured ground of shifting allegiances which characterised the whole region, Róbert would be keenly struck, in times to come, by the irony of that whole endeavour in the upper bend of the Fertile Crescent. He would come to bear witness to a conflict in which Persians of the Ishmaelite creed would ride to the defence of an Orthodox Despot, against Greek Orthodox Christians who fought for the honour of a Muslim clan leader. And he would also bear witness to the sheer bravery and honour of all those who fought—both those arrayed with him and those arrayed against him.

This time, instead of sailing from Kjustendža through the Bosporos at the City and around the southern length of Asia Minor, Róbert made land in the Pontic region on the near coastline of the Euxine, and marched his men across eastern Anatolia into Armenia from the north.

The first battle of the Thessalian War for Vaspurakan in which Moravian troops made their appearance was on familiar ground indeed: it took place near the black basalt-walled city of Âmid, which Róbert recalled as a microcosm of the great panoply of linguistic and religious diversity of the Mesopotamian northlands.

Just as Thessalia had called upon Moravia for help, however, the Muslim Armenians could also bring alliances to bear. The ‘Abbâsî-descended Bedouin Sulṭân of Baġdâd, Îsâ ibn ‘Abdallâh ibn Umayyah al-Ḥakmî, had ridden northward to the defence of his Armenian clan allies. The dreaded Black Standard of the ‘Abbâsiyya flew once more outside of Âmid, and it was being flown by the Sulṭân’s vassal, Wâlî Muḵtâr. Alongside the Baġdâdî forces, however, marched a contingent of Christian Greeks from Trapezitsa, whose liege lady Chrysogonē served as one of Patriarch Mihrdat’s secondary wives. Orthodox Greeks fighting alongside Sunnî Bedouins, in defence of an Armenian Muslim Patriarch, against an Orthodox Greek Despot? Who would have thought?

No less strange, though, was the reaction of the Nâ‘ib of Si‘ird, Nârsî ibn al-Ẓafar! Nârsî, despite his Armenian first name and Greek-derived surname, and despite being the vassal of Despot Ioustinianos, nonetheless held to Iranian culture and to the Shî‘a faith with all the stubbornness and zeal of one recently converted. Nârsî, perhaps out of an eagerness to prove his troth to his lord as much as anything else, sent a contingent of Persian aswârân from Si‘ird to aid his liege’s war. It was again disconcerting to Róbert to see aswârân upon his own side in battle—yet there they were!

Kráľ Róbert rode around to the front of the line together with Knieža Vasilko. The young Knieža had with him the new sword Róbert had commissioned for him, and Róbert bore Pazúr for the first time into battle.

‘Do you think the Brothers will arrive in time, Hospoď?’ asked Vasilko.

‘They sh—should. Their last rep—pp—port put them t—ten miles north of Âmid.’

‘We may yet need them,’ Vasilko noted grimly. ‘I told you before that we needed to watch, wait and see what the enemy does before we move. This will not be an easy battle; and victory is by no means sure.’

The maršal spoke only truth. Without the Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre, the sizes of the two forces were practically even. The Moravians fielded roughly thirty-five thousand troops, while the Baġdâdî force was thirty—but the forces under the Black Standard had more armigers and riders with them, which would cancel out whatever small edge the Moravians had from numbers.

The armies clashed in the shadows of the black walls of Âmid. Róbert joined in the fray at the front with his foot-troops, swinging Pazúr boldly about him left and right, using the claw end to tear away armour and mail and the hammer end to land heavy, crippling blows upon exposed flesh. But even amid the heat and screams and unholy din of battle, Robin could see and appreciate how the Baġdâdî Arabs and their Bedouin commanders fought with remarkable tenacity and valour. Robin had heard from the Ḥarrâniyyin when he had come here before of the Bedouin code of aš-šaraf: which demanded of all men that they lay their lives down selflessly on for the protection of their clan and for the ‘irḏ, or purity, of their womenfolk. This austere conduct among the Bedouin fursân clearly showed its face in battle, for they proved remarkably hard targets to fetch down. At one bleak point in the battle it seemed that Wâlî Muḵtar would triumph. The Moravians were being pressed hard on both flanks, and were rapidly losing ground to the Baġdâdî advance.

But two hours after midday, from the north there appeared the red crosses and white tabards of the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre! The Orthodox defenders of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, with the awe-inspiring white-bearded Grandmaster Vlastibor at their head holding aloft his sword, came swarming down out of the hills from the direction of the old Roman Bridge, and joined the battle with the traditional battle-cry of ‘Za Prázdnu Hrobu!’ The Baġdâdî line was forced to abandon the advantage it had pressed in order to keep from being flanked hard and routed. Once again the Moravians had a fighting chance.

In particular, Knieža Vasilko seemed to take heart, and the steel sword which the king had gifted him flashed in shimmering sanguinary arcs around him. Vasilko fought his way out of the trap he had been placed in, and led a charge at the Bedouin commander. Caught as they were between the men of Podkarpatská and the Brothers of the Holy Sepulchre, the Bedouin could only stand their ground and hope to hold. But Vasilko was upon them! He leapt forward to have ado with the Sulṭân’s kinsman ‘Ubayd, and at once the other Bedouin stood off from the fight—this was their lord’s opportunity to demonstrate his šaraf, and they would not rob him of it. The Moravians and Carpatho-Rusins, as well, stood off from Vasilko to allow him to duel the Bedouin nobleman.

To any who watched, it was plain to see how Vasilko had taken to heart his lessons in personal sparring from the Kráľ, who in turn learnt them from the Queen Mother. The elderly Adriana, when after the war she heard about this bout of swordplay from her son, was deeply proud of her grand-pupil. Vasilko’s footwork was splendid; his guard was solid; his stance was measured but not lacking one whit in aggression against this deadly foe.

In the end, ‘Ubayd al-Ḥakmî, despite the undisputed boldness and skill with which he fought, and despite the ferocity of his attacks, could not withstand the onslaught from the youthful Carpatho-Russian maršal. The elder man was unable to slip the leg when parrying the younger man’s attacks, and Vasilko scored one touch, then another on the Bedouin’s thigh. ‘Ubayd lost his footing at one critical moment, lost balance, and found his guard critically open on the left side. It was to be his last mistake.

Vasilko drove the keen point of his gifted sword home with pitiless force, and impaled the Bedouin at an exposed spot just under his ribcage. The rings of mail squealed and yielded, followed by the sound of flesh being sundered by the blade. ‘Ubayd blew out a shocked breath, then toppled backward and lay still.

The battle for Âmid was over. The Brotherhood of the Holy Sepulchre had tipped the balance back in the Moravians’ favour. The surviving Baġdâdî forces pulled away to the southeast in order to regroup. With Âmid safe, the Moravians were free to march northeast to join the Thessalonians and the Persians of Si‘ird at Lake Van, where the rest of the war would be fought.

Grandmaster Vlastibor laid siege to the city of Maku, while the Kráľ’s forces did the same at Vaspurakan. The two were near enough to each other to aid the other in battle if they should be attacked, but Patriarch Mihrdat instead chose to send his men north and west around the lake to engage the Thessalonians at the fortress of Khlat.

This was a desperate last-ditch effort on the Patriarch’s part to bid for his hold on Vaspurakan. And the Thessalonians knew this. The Thessalonians had cut down their own Greek-speaking countrymen from Trapezitsa in their headlong flight from Armenia; and now the last remnants of the Baġdâdî army had joined with the Muslim Armenians in this final effort to dislodge the Thessalonians from Lake Van. It was, however, a doomed effort. Once Maku fell to the Brotherhood, the Moravians quickly traversed Lake Van to reinforce the Thessalonians from the south.

The battle was over with merciful speed once the Moravians arrived. Although another of the Sulṭân of Baġdâd’s kinsmen, ’Ibrâhîm, had been slain in the battle by Doux Aristarchos 3., the Moravian king, once he arrived, left open a clean route of retreat for the Bedouin and the Arabs. It was a courtesy, but Róbert personally felt, from what he had seen of Bedouin valour, that they deserved nothing less. After that, the key holding of Western Armenia was once again under the rule of a Christian monarch.

Kráľ Róbert returned to Moravia in a very thoughtful, even chastened mood. He had seen Greek Christians fight and bleed and die for a Muslim lord; and he had seen Muslim riders do the same, laying down their lives for a Christian Despot. He had beheld the splendour of Arabian swordsmanship, and scented the purity of the Arabian honour of the spoken word, the deep desire for truth which they bore among them despite their embrace of the Mohammedan heresy. He regretted even the deaths of ’Ubayd and ’Ibrâhîm, and he personally sent their bodies and their effects back to Baġdâd to receive the honour he believed was only their due. And even before he set foot on board a ship back to Moravia, Kráľ Róbert had already started scrawling down the first few notes of the work that would become known as the Tales of a Penitent Pilgrim—the Príbehy kajúceho pútnika.