An Embarrassment of Riches (51 page)

Never mind. I am being inconsequential; the fate of Kings is not yours to bear, nor mine. You had your reasons for going to Alexandria, and they are not for me to oppose. But still, I would like to see you for at least a little while, before you continue on to Constantinople. Like you, I become lonely from time to time, and I miss speaking the language of my youth with someone who comprehends it as you do. Niklos is very reliable and he indulges me from time to time with Imperial Latin, but he did not know me in my breathing days, as you did. As I write this, I am made aware of how much more you are alone than I am, and how the loneliness must ache in you more than the yearning for touching the living. Or perhaps it is that loneliness that fuels the hunger those of your blood have, more than the need for the only sustenance that can support us. I, too, have found that those I have sought out are less willing, or perhaps less capable, of embracing us and our nature as others have been in the past, preferring to indulge the flesh but to withhold the soul, for fear of slighting the Christian God, or his minions on earth.

It is unfortunate that the Church has claimed so much of the understanding of the people, and has become the clerk for the nobility. I think back to the Priest of the City in the Roma of my youth, a position that was a political one achieved by election, a time when the Vestal Virgins could over-rule the Senate and even the Emperor for a century or two. The people worshiped by choosing the god or goddess who best supported their cause, and respected them as they respected the civic virtues they represented—at least enough of them did to provide an even keel for the Empire. You remember this time, and although Niklos has heard about it, he came after the Roman state was (if you will pardon my putting it this way) in eclipse, and riddled with corruption, as so many European Courts are now. You have told me the corruption was always there, and that may be true, but not so blatant as it became, and not so devoid of consequences.

Such morose maunderings! You will think me lost in melancholy, and I am not. I will admit to being disappointed in the world around me, but that is far from despondency and the lethargy that comes with it. I know that I must not give way to despair, nor will I, but I am certain that I should put my efforts toward finding those partners who are willing to find exultation in more than the Mass. Is that why you went to Alexandria? Are the women there more willing to extend themselves to you? I have assumed most of them live cloistered lives, away from men, but there may be some who will be happy to have a lover as devoted to their fulfillment as his own. I admit this causes me misgivings I have not felt before, and that leads to restlessness that erodes my serenity. But it will pass, in time. You have assured me many times that all things do.

You will say I continue to quetch, which I will agree I do. You continue to wander, searching for what? solace? rapture? acceptance? endurance? Whatever it is, I hope you will find it, and that it will be all you have yearned for. Until that time, be certain that my love is yours

Eternally,

Olivia

Author’s Note

The map of Europe is constantly changing; countries arise, expand, contract, relocate; many eventually disappear. Most of these changes have happened to the Kingdom of Bohemia, which, at its height in the thirteenth century, included not only what is now the Czech Republic, and Slovenia, but also most of Austria, Styria, Carinthia, part of modern Poland, and Moravia. A significant factor in this enlargement was due to the energies of the Przemysl dynasty, in particular, Vaclav (Wenceslaus) I and his son Otakar (Ottocar) II, known variously as the Iron, the Golden, and the Great. At a time when Bohemia was a mining center of eastern Europe, the Przemysls made the most of their mineral resources, and turned Bohemia into one of the wealthiest kingdoms of that age, which enabled Vaclav I and Otakar II to finance major military campaigns. For more than a quarter century, Przemysl Otakar II did his utmost to make an empire out of Bohemia, and very nearly succeeded. He also did his best, upon the death of Richard of Cornwall, to be elected Holy Roman Emperor, but lost that contest to Rudolph von Hapsburg, who became his implacable foe.

Otakar married twice; both were political unions, the first to Marghete of Austria, who was almost thirty years his senior, who retired, handsomely recompensed, to a nunnery in 1260; the second in 1261 to Kunigunde of Halicz, granddaughter of King Bela of Hungary, whose kingdom included most of modern Romania, the northern third of Bulgaria, eastern Croatia, Slovakia, and the eastern end of Austria. Kunigunde, younger than Otakar by about fifteen years, was the mother of Otakar II’s three children, including his only legitimate son, who became Vaclav II; her father was Rosztiszlo, Grand Duke of Kiev and King of Bulgaria, and her mother was Anna of Hungary, all very desirable political connections for Otakar.

At this time in history, most of the people of Europe—and the rest of the world, for that matter—were illiterate. Nearly all the centers of education were run by the Church, and as such, perpetuated the Church’s role of record-keeper, historian, diplomatic liaison, and document-maker. Even the upper classes were largely dependent on Church-schooled scribes—usually monks—for the preparation of their official papers. As a result, almost all contemporary records of this period are in Church Latin, often with an admixture of local usage and dialect. Most of eastern Europe was a linguistic hodge-podge of Slavic, German, Baltic, and Balkan tongues with some Latin influences; spelling was not standardized, and names of persons and places appeared in many forms. By far the most disconcerting country for such confusion was Hungary; it had five distinct languages being used at the time of this book; Magyar was the most common of the lot, but it was not unusual for Hungarians living only a few miles apart to be completely unintelligible to one another.

For the sake of clarity rather than authenticity, I have chosen one version of all city, country, and personal names and used that consistently throughout the book. Whenever possible I have chosen the ones that are most commonly found in the records of the time; when that has been impossible to determine, I have chosen the word or name closest to modern usage. Titles of nobility were generally recorded in their Latin versions, and I have maintained that in this novel to avoid confusion and to make it easier to equate the old titles with current ones: hence,
dux,
meaning leader, which becomes duke in English and doge in Venetian, or
comes
—pronounced CO-mays—which becomes comte in French, count in English, and conte in Italian; other titles such as
pan
are uniquely Bohemian: pan is roughly the equivalent of baron, meaning something along the lines of land-holding-martial-aristocrat-not-directly-related-to-the-ruler. Otakar II, in most of his official documents, preferred the German derivative
rytir
(rider) for knights, meaning titled men who were permitted to ride horseback in royal processions and were expected to provide fighting men for the King’s use in war; it was also the title conferred upon mounted fighters who distinguished themselves in battle. Customs of conferring knighthood were not as strictly defined in Bohemia as they were in England and France. Traditionally, knighthood usually bound the knight directly to the King rather than to a chain of aristocratic command, and the honors knighthood conferred did not pass to the heirs of the knight, but lasted only for the life of the knight. In terms of religious titles, Latin is also used, with a few regional variations of the period—
Pader
(Bohemian) and
Pater
(Hungarian), father, for priests;
Episcopus
for bishops;
Frater,
brother, for monks; and
Sorer,
sister, for nuns. As regards Otakar himself, he used both
Rex
and
Konig
for his titles, so I have opted for
Konig
for him and
Konige
for Kunigunde. The honorific used for the rulers in Bohemia at the time translates roughly as
dear Royal,
so that is how the honorific appears in these pages.

Being a younger son and therefore intended for the Church, Otakar himself seems to have had a rudimentary level of literacy, enough to be able to leave a small amount of personal letters and lyrics that are not in the handwriting of his clerks and scribes, and are consistent with his signatures on various official documents. As was the custom of the time, he left most of the writing chores to his scribes and clerks, such activities being considered inappropriate for reigning royalty. Like most aristocratic men of his time, Otakar could read music and play stringed instruments. Also in keeping with his position Otakar had a Court Scholar for most of his reign, lavishly rewarding the men who fulfilled this post, as was his habit, for providing him with reliable information; the Court Scholars, whose names have not come down to us in any verifiable form, were charged with interviewing travelers as well as pursuing more academic studies, and with sponsoring the making of books.

Like many Medieval rulers, Otakar’s amusements were hawking, hunting, carousing, and gambling. Legend says he was given to bouts of self-indulgence and occasional debauchery, but there is little solid evidence of these lubricities; then again, there is no sure indication that he did not indulge, either. That he was reported to have been involved in orgies is hardly surprising, since similar tales were circulating about most of the aristocrats and royalty at that time. While Otakar II often had the opportunity for such behavior, and may very well have enjoyed himself in ways that officially scandalized the Church, his private activities remain more rumors than facts. What we do know about him is that after his rebellion against his father, until he was forgiven and reinstated as Vaclav’s heir, he spent most of his time hunting and in riotous living; once he became King of Bohemia, his ambitions burgeoned and he appears to have devoted most of his time to territorial expansion and political maneuvering.

For most of the two-plus years covered in this novel, Otakar was on campaign, a significant part of his personal Court accompanying him into battle. Konige Kunigunde divided her time between Praha and Pressburg, apparently staying in Praha during her pregnancies because the city was far from the dangers of disputed territories and the threat of kidnaping, where her lavish and opulent Court could take care of her. Contemporary records imply that she was not well after the birth of her first child, Kunigunde of Bohemia, in 1265; her two later pregnancies evoked great concern for her health, emotional as well as physical. It is likely that she suffered from some form of postpartum depression, given that one of the more reliable observations of the time says that Kunigunde was prone to melancholy following the birth of her three children. Other accounts of the time often describe her as meek and submissive—both considered desirable virtues at the time—but subject to occasional outbursts of passion, which were attributed to her Hungarian nature.

In matters of nomenclature, the aristocracy and royalty of most eastern European states put their family names before their personal names if they were male—Przemysl Otakar II—or occasionally, when dealing with Germans or Italians, he styled himself Otakar II of Bohemia, in the manner of most western European royalty of the time. Aristocratic females put the personal name first, with their estate name following
of
or
from—
Rozsa of Borsod—and did not take their husbands’ names. Royal children were usually identified by the names of their estates, in the same manner as noblewomen were. Merchants were usually identified by the goods they sold—Josko the mercer—or by the city from which they traded—Vlach of Bruno. Working men also often had a personal name, followed by an
of
or
from,
indicating where they lived—Gazsi of Raab. However, when a family had been established in a profession for three generations or more, then the family name appeared before the personal name, many times derived from occupations, the founding ancestor’s name, or nicknames, and usually followed by the name of the city, town, or village of residence—Tirz Agoston of Mures. Peasants and common people had no family names as such, but often had either a patronymic—Donat-son-of-Mozes—or an occupation name—Antal-the-smith.

Like all European Medieval societies, Bohemian and Hungarian merchants and aristocrats kept slaves to do the most unpleasant, most basic labor of household and personal maintenance. They also controlled most of the land and the serfs who worked them in conditions almost identical to slavery. The vast majority of these slaves came from the territories to the east of their countries, especially the Principalities of Russia, although some came from the Middle East, where the slave-trade flourished. Slaves were expensive, not only to purchase but to keep, and as such were something of a status symbol for those who owned them.

Standards of measurement were a bit haphazard, but in terms of measuring distance, the Bohemian league seems to have been a bit shorter than the Roman one, being about two and a third miles as compared to the Roman three-mile leagues. Various other regions of Europe had slightly different versions of leagues, so calculating distance was never an easy task. Nautical measurement of distance was also different from region to region: the ships of the Hanseatic League used a different standard than the Venetian Empire did, and Spain used still another standard. Italy, although fragmented, kept to the Roman league. To limit the confusion, I have used the Bohemian league throughout, applying it to both land and sea. For acreage, the plowing standard seems to have been maintained, and will be used here. Tuns, bushels, crocks, and bales had a great deal of leeway in terms of sizes. Animals and people were measured in terms of hands—horses still are—which has been standardized to four inches—fifteen hands equals sixty inches, or five feet. Although the hand was not so fixed at the time, for clarity it is reckoned by the modern four inches in this story.