The Baron’s Decree and a Cunning Plot

The decree conferring the barony upon Svein was swiftly delivered to Ostrava. A blonde young man, skilled on horseback, brought the parchment.

After delivering the decree, he departed in haste to report back, not lingering for a moment.

“Father, what is this?” Frey pulled off his blacksmith’s leather apron, casually wiping his sooty hands on his clothes. He leaned closer to examine the peculiar parchment, which bore a deep crimson wax seal at its bottom.

The parchment was covered in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Latin characters.

Frey had never even learned Runic script, let alone the most aristocratic Latin of the Middle Ages. To him, it was an inscrutable text.

As a master of languages, Svein naturally understood Latin. A swift glance was enough for him to grasp the meaning of the parchment’s words.

Instead of answering Frey’s question, Svein countered, “Did you get a good look at the messenger just now?”

“Yes, I did. He was a Norseman,” Frey replied.

“Ah…” Svein sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Go fetch your sister.”

“What about the sword forging…?” Frey looked at the iron bar cooling in the water.

“Let’s leave it for today. I’ll teach you again tomorrow.”

****

Frey moved swiftly, and a quarter of an hour later, a tall, blonde woman followed closely behind him.

The blonde woman possessed a slightly pointed chin with a graceful curve, a small mole adorning the corner of her eye, bright eyes, and pearly teeth. Her movements were decisive and efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation.

Her hair was damp at the ends, and her face was flushed, making it easy to guess what she had been doing.

“Father, did you need me for something?”

Noren pushed aside the hair clinging to her face and wiped away sweat. She had been exercising and rushed over immediately upon hearing she was needed.

Svein wasted no words, directly handing her the decree. “Take a look at this.”

She took the decree, scanned it briefly, and a slight frown creased her brow. Then, she handed it back. “Father, you know I can’t read Latin.”

“Of course, I know you can’t read it. Look at this instead,” Svein said, pointing to the wax family seal at the bottom of the decree.

Noren leaned closer, staring at the deep crimson wax seal. A bewildered expression crossed her face, as if the seal recognized her, but she had no idea what it was.

She glanced at it, unable to make sense of it, and, suspecting her father was teasing her, she fixed a slightly resentful gaze upon the old man.

“This is the seal of the Přemyslid family,” Svein explained, re-rolling the parchment and securing it once more with the dark red ribbon.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going. I need to continue my training,” Noren said, twisting her waist and turning to leave.

“Wait!” Svein called, stopping her. Then, he gestured to Frey in the distance. “Frey, your sister and I need to speak alone.”

Frey pouted indignantly. ‘They’re whispering secrets behind my back!’

Yet, he had to obey his father’s command. He kicked at small pebbles on the road, venting his frustration, and soon wandered out of earshot.

The blonde woman blew dust off a stool and sat down, her firm, shapely legs pressed together neatly.

She stretched, her ample bosom nearly spilling from her clothes. “Alright, Father, tell me. What’s so important that you had to send Frey away?”

Svein’s words were startling. “Jaromir has conferred the title of baron upon me.”

“What???”

Ignoring his daughter’s bewildered, almost distorted expression, Svein continued, “This is a decree of investiture. Jaromir, in his capacity as the Archbishop of Opava, has appointed me Baron of Ostrava.

The five surrounding villages are to be incorporated into Ostrava, and I am granted numerous rights, including the authority to build a fortress and to knight individuals.

In return, I must swear an oath of fealty to him, provide military service, and defend his rights and status.”

After listening, Noren said with disappointment, “So, I can’t kill Jaromir now, can I?”

Svein twirled his beard. “Of course, you can. But only after the investiture ceremony, and it must be an assassination.”

“I’m not stupid,” Noren retorted curtly.

She then asked, “Why would Jaromir suddenly make you a baron, Father? Isn’t there some trickery involved?”

“A trick? Of course, there is. And it’s an open conspiracy at that…” Svein recalled his time with the Greeks, his gaze drifting into the distance.

His gaze soared northwest, tracing mountains and rivers, passing through forests, swamps, and lakes, sweeping over farmlands, villages, and towns, before finally settling firmly upon a balcony in Prague Castle.

****

On this balcony, two men, dressed in splendid, brightly colored robes, were drinking and conversing freely.

They were “The Handsome” Otta and his elder brother, Conrad.

Leaning against a stone pillar on the balcony, Conrad raised his goblet. “My handsome brother, what exactly is Jaromir thinking? I generously donated money for him to build a monastery and even gave him Opava as an episcopal principality. Why, then, would he insist on bestowing a barony upon that detestable Northman?”

Conrad’s chest was heavy with vexation, and the fine wine in his cup tasted flat. He raised his hand and flung its contents into the sky beyond the balcony.

“The Handsome” Otta smiled faintly. With his prominent nose bridge and deep-set eyes, he was a quintessential European Adonis.

He offered reassurance, “Since you have already given Opava away, brother, why dwell on it? Though Jaromir is the youngest of our five brothers, he is blessed by God’s grace, and his every action is the will of the Lord.”

Otta’s implication was clear: Jaromir might be inexperienced, a mere youth, but as a bishop, any foolishness he committed could ultimately be attributed to God’s will.

Conrad’s brow remained deeply furrowed. He glanced at the lively atmosphere in the hall, where nobles drank, made merry, and flirted with beauties, but he felt no joy; his spirits remained heavy.

He raised his glass to “The Handsome” Otta. “Otta, do you think he might be trying to win over those Northmen? But the Mayor of Hradec is allied with the Northmen’s leader through marriage, and the Mayor has always been a staunch supporter of the Duke. Jaromir can’t possibly succeed in winning them over.”

Otta looked at the empty goblet in his brother’s hand, utterly speechless.

‘The wine is gone. Who are you toasting now?’

Otta turned away, perfunctorily raised his glass, drank, and then said, “Indeed, the Mayor of Hradec is a steadfast supporter of the Duke. But what about the Northmen’s leader? Is he?

Is he truly content for his warriors to take orders from the Mayor of Hradec?

Hmm? My dear brother?”

Conrad’s eyes widened in sudden realization, and his goblet clattered to the floor. “Are you saying…”

“The Handsome” Otta snapped his fingers, his right hand forming a pistol gesture, his index finger pointing at Conrad.

“Precisely what you’re thinking,” Otta said, dissecting Jaromir’s scheme in a few words. “Jaromir intends to incite conflict between the Northmen and Hradec.

The Mayor of Hradec has one son, and the Northmen’s leader also has only one son. The position of mayor cannot be inherited, but a baronial title and its fiefdom can.

Therefore, they are bound to clash over this.

No matter which side loses the struggle, a few Northmen are sure to die.

So what if he grants a title? How many troops can a tiny patch of land support?

The more brave Northmen who die, the weaker the border defenses become. This not only undermines the Duke’s power but also tempts invasions from Poland and the Magyars.

Once the Magyars arrive to raid, the Northmen might be wiped out entirely. All forces opposing Jaromir will be purged, and Opava will fall completely under his control!”

Conrad’s pupils constricted slightly. ‘Jaromir’s cunning is formidable!’

He exclaimed, “And after the Mayor of Hradec loses the Northmen’s aid, coupled with the Magyar raids, Jaromir can legitimately take over the city of Hradec.

It’s truly a stroke of genius, killing three birds with one stone…”

“The Handsome” Otta rested his arms on the balcony’s edge, gazing at the sky. ‘The Přemyslid family has no easy targets, save for our deceased eldest brother,’ he thought.

“Hmm?” Otta leaned over the balcony, clearly observing the scene below the castle. A knight was rushing forward, and after questioning the guards, he headed straight for the castle’s main keep.

He smiled, pointing at the knight. “Brother, look, I wonder whose knight that is. It seems some households are not at peace, hmm?”

Conrad narrowed his eyes, concentrating. The knight wore a hood, obscuring their features, and eleventh-century knightly surcoats typically did not bear family crests.

He worried, ‘Could something have happened to my wife at home?’

Before long, the knight attempted to enter the banquet hall, was stopped by guards, caused a commotion for a moment, and was then allowed through.

The knight strode purposefully towards the balcony, their destination clear.

“The Handsome” Otta chuckled, glancing at Conrad beside him, his eyes seemingly saying, ‘Look! He’s looking for you.’

To their surprise, as the knight approached, he immediately knelt on one knee before “The Handsome” Otta, presenting a cloth-wrapped pouch with both hands.

“My Lord Count,” the knight announced, “I am here by Sir Kovan’s command to deliver a letter for your perusal!”

Otta instantly froze in embarrassment. He scanned the banquet hall, realizing all the guests were watching him. Turning his head, he saw Conrad looking at him with a half-smile.

His old face flushed, he snatched the pouch and fled the banquet like a shot, the knight following close behind.

As he walked, “The Handsome” Otta opened the pouch, extracted a rolled parchment, and discarded the cloth bag. He read the letter as he moved, his expression gradually growing solemn, his pace slowing until he finally stopped.

Silence, then an explosive outburst. Otta furiously crumpled the parchment, throwing the wad to the ground and stomping on it several times.

He raged, “Fools, idiots, good-for-nothings! You can’t even defeat a Northman shieldmaiden. What use are you to me! A bunch of scoundrels, you even resorted to a sneak attack, ruining my reputation!”

“Damn you all to hell! You motherf—”

The knight, sweat beading on his brow, dared not breathe a word. His body stood rigidly behind Count Otta.

As Otta’s anger subsided, he turned around. “Why have I never seen you before?”

The knight, though robust in physique, had a somewhat youthful face. He answered truthfully, “I am Claude’s son, I am called…”

The Count raised a hand to interrupt. “I don’t care what your name is, nor do I care why Kovan sent you with this letter. Shortly, I will write two letters: one for Kovan, and the other to the city of Hradec in Opava.”

“Have you understood?”

The knight—no, more accurately, a large boy clad in knight’s armor—bowed.

He bowed respectfully. “As you wish, my esteemed ‘Handsome’ Lord Count.”