[Fic - Hungary/Poland] The Sword Of Mars And The Shield Of Pallas
The Sword Of Mars And The Shield Of Pallas
by gisho
Prompt: "Poland/Hungary, in the early modern era. I'd love to see you take on the reign of Matthias Corvinus, the Raven King of Hungary, and his battles against St. Casimir, king of Poland for control of Central Europe in 1470-71. Poland and Hungary are very similar in the 1470s; the discourse on Christian kingship and right methods of diplomacy and rule ... they are both ascendant, under magnificent kings, and coming into their own power. And they clash, despite -- or because of -- wanting so much of the same thing. (Also, something about Catholicism and the remnants of Eastern European paganism in conflict would be fascinating. Corvinus has all these legends about being saved by crows...)"
Hungary/Poland. PG-13, contains violence. The fifteenth century - the world is changing, and Hungary and Poland must try to adapt and hold onto their identities. And, of course, get as much territory as they can grab.
--
--
[June, anno domini 1453, Krakow]
"Constantinople is dead," is the first thing that Hungary says, even before she dismounts.
It's a nice day, and the sun is shining. Poland's smile was sun-bright; now it falls away from his face. "Mother Mary, why don't you start with the bad news?"
"The Ottoman Empire. About a month ago. Help me down?"
She doesn't need the help, but it gives them an excuse to embrace. Her horse whinnies, and stomps his feet. Like all her horses, he's spirited, white, and enormous. Hungary turns to pat his flank, still heaving with the exertion of the gallop to Krakow. Poland does the same, stretching to scratch at his ears. He huffs appreciatively, and when Poland offers him a lump of sugar he nuzzles at his fingers. Poland has always been extravagant, and feeding sugar to a horse is not a strange indulgence, for him. "I'm sorry," Hungary begins. "You must have been hoping I would have good news."
"Yeah." Poland gives her horse a final pat, and takes the reins. "Better than that, at least, if you came all the way to Krakow to bring it to me. The Ottoman Empires is entirely too ambitious," he adds, voice dull and bitter. He has not forgotten how his last king - their last king - died on the fields of Varna. "At least you're next. I mean, not that I wish a war on you, but you, you could win."
There are humans, scurrying around the courtyard, but nobody moves to take her horse as they walk toward the stables. Perhaps they know what Poland is and don't care to interrupt the discussion, or perhaps they're simply afraid of the horse, docile though he is now after the long ride. From the battlements a lone raven eyes them sideways, ruffling its wings.
"I will." She grins, remembering the heat of the battlefield, the heady smell of blood. "I might even have allies. My boss has written to the Pope, asking for aid."
"Ladislaus? I didn't think the little runt cared."
Her grin widens. "I meant Hunyadi."
--
It occurs to Poland, sometime around the third bottle of wine, that someone will have to tell Lithuania's Russian territories. That someone will probably be him. He announces it to the setting sun, hands clenched on the windowsill. He looks older, Hungary thinks. "You don't think they'll take the news well?"
"They follow her church. They looked up to her." He half-shrugs, and continues in the same quiet, weary voice, "We all did."
Hungary toys with her goblet. It has a pattern of twining leaves embossed on it, and rubies set on the sides. Poland had been too shaken to press fresh clothes on her, which was perhaps just as well; he liked to give her beautiful gowns, the kind of thing that would get ripped to bits after three days in the saddle. She should keep a room here, like Lithuania does. She comes to Krakow often enough.
The silence must annoy Poland. He only lets it stand for a few moments before he continues, "It just seemed like - like something that would always be true. That there would always be a Roman Empire. And now there isn't a Roman Empire anymore."
"There's the Holy Roman Empire." She takes a gulp of wine.
Poland waves a hand and turns round, leaning against the windowsill. "Doesn't count. He just calls himself Roman. Because of the Pope. You know." He seems to be trying to think of something, but it eludes him, and scowling, he returns to her side. "I don't see why the Pope likes him so much. We're just as Christian, aren't we? Forget the damn Empire. He's falling to bits, you know, it's just a matter of time." His fingers on Hungary's wrist are very warm, and his breath is warm on her ear, and it's very easy, far too easy, to think just how little her king cares for her right now. Her leather cuirass creaks as she leans against Poland. The noise is enough to startle them, though, and suddenly they're both sitting upright, not quite touching, breathing harder than they should be.
Not right now, Hungary tells herself. Not right now. They're neither of them anywhere near sober, and Poland has scarcely touched her since the Union of Krewo. She doesn't like to think that she misses it. Constantinople is dead. The Ottomans are advancing on her southern borders. "Will you come fight them with me?"
She realizes she did not specify who, but Poland doesn't seem to notice. He turns away, and there it is again, the encroaching age. Age doesn't suit him. "Love to, but I'm busy. With your old friend the Ordenstaat, you know. I should be in Danzig right now. You know Liet's hardly speaking to me? Not that that's new, I swear we spend more time arguing than - " He breaks off, voice wavering. "It's not supposed to be like this."
Hungary cannot think of anything to say to that, so she offers him her goblet. He takes it and drains the rest in one gulp.
--
And much later, with the fire flickering, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and cradles her head against her breast. Once, she thinks, he would not have lit a fire in June, even this far north. Or is she only remembering that it was warm because they were so young? The world always seems colder now. Snow on the mountains, and rivers frozen over, and fires in June. "It's all over," Poland whispers to her, and she cannot bring herself to disagree. "Without Constantinople. Something is over. The world is different now. We just have to keep going somehow." She kisses his forehead and thinks of the screams of dying horses.
--
[February, anno domini 1458, Buda]
There are bells ringing, as they always ring now, at noon. Poland looks up at the belltower; two crows launch themselves from it with outraged squawks. Hungary grins. The hilt of her sword glistens. "He'll be here soon."
"Yeah. So when are you holding the coronation?"
"Once I have my crown back." Okay, that's obviously a sore subject. Poland does his best to look apologetic. He has no real reason to be here; the Hunyadi boy is not his king. But it's an improvement on being in the north. He's sick of the Ordenstaat, and his raucous laugh, and Hungary is more than congenial company. Besides, they have to talk about Bohemia at some point.
They're not really high enough to see all of Buda, but from what he can see the place looks pretty good. Clean. The Danube is still frozen over; Pest huddles up against its other side, like it's trying to keep warm. She said her people actually met on the Danube, out in the middle of the ice, to make the Hunyadi boy her king. He can believe it. There's a crowd out there now, and what looks like a few enterprising market stalls - maybe later on, they can walk down and have dinner. Assuming her king arrives before they give up and send someone to find food for them.
Hungary leans back, rearranging her sword so as not to interfere. She looks utterly at home, sprawled out over the cathedral roof. This is her home ground, and her king is riding home, and the bells rang to commemorate her victory. Her victory over the infidel, so it was all their victory, really. Poland winces surreptitiously. He wonders what the Pope must think of him right now - but by Mother Mary, the Ordenstaat never learns, and if people want to be Polish he's not about to turn them down. There are more important things than the Pope's opinion.
Constantinople, for example.
"Hey," Hungary says, squinting at the clouds. "I wonder if he's bringing his bride. He didn't say, when he wrote me."
"He's getting married?"
"To the daughter of George of Podiebrad. Not right away, the poor girl's only nine," she adds. Poland plants an elbow on the roof, turning to look at her. Her eyes are closed. "He's going to be King of Bohemia as soon as they get things worked out. George, I mean. Bohemia's so happy."
Poland does not share his opinion of Bohemia. "So he's your ally still?"
"Indeed." Her eyes are open now, bright with an acquisitive glint. "And if things work out, Austria might - hey! Hey, he's here!" She scrambles to her feet, almost sliding down the roof a few feet in the process. "He's at the gate, come on, we might be able to see the procession." Poland tries to follow, and does slip, and utters a few things the Pope certainly wouldn't approve of. She gives him a hand up, laughing.
As they scramble across the roof to get a glimpse, their breath leaves a trail of clouds in the air.
--
[November, anno domini 1465, Buda]
"He's not such a bad sort. For a heretic. I thought your boss liked him." Poland frowns, and squints at the altar.
"What are you up to?"
"No, I mean it. Even if he did get excommunicated. Remember that treaty he was sending around? Back when your boss married his daughter? Bohemia came and talked to me about it, and - there were good ideas in there."
Hungary runs a finger along her collar. She can never get used to women's clothing. It feels too fine, and it suits her no better than Poland's soldier's garb suits him. "As if four nations could ever agree on anything."
"More than four," Poland reminds her. He almost sounds wistful, which is odd from someone who tries so hard to live in the present. "All of Europe. Eventually. All of Christendom."
His sweetheart Lithuania, the one he fights with as if they've been together a thousand years and not eighty - he was not Christian, eighty years ago. Perhaps that's why Poland dredged up the old Roman word. Europa. She likes the sound of it, when she considers it. Hungary is not old enough to remember Rome, but it is impossible not to know the footsteps he left. He was not Christian either, until a few centuries before his death. He left idols of bronze and temples of white marble, and what did their old gods leave them? The icon of Mary smiles serenely down on them.
"There's no reason we couldn't form an alliance, though," Poland continues. "Just the four of us. You, me, Bohemia, Austria. Before the Ottoman Empire tries anything more."
"Austria? A military alliance?" She laughs, once, harsh and ringing.
The noise of it echoes through the little chapel, and Poland jerks in surprise and turns to look at her, instead of the altar. He's spent most of the evening avoiding her eyes. "Mag, what are you up to?"
Mary's smile is no more serene than Hungary's. No more serene nor inscrutable.
--
They meet a league outside the city. Janus is riding a huge white stallion, like Hungary's, but he looks as if he would dearly love to get off it. Poland smothers a laugh and spurs his dapple-grey horse forward to greet him. In the mess of human travellers he shines like a jewel on a tarnished chain, though Hungary is the only one who can see.
Hungary follows; they ride slowly, letting the rest of the party slip past, and there are laughs and fond words and she finally introduces Poland, who has put on his most charming smile. The snow is already dusting his hair white. "A pleasure," he says. Janus returns the smile. By the time the wagon has caught up to them, they are laughing together like old friends.
The guards make alarmed noises, but they know Janus and no-one disobeys Hungary, even if they don't recognize her. Poland is allowed to scramble inside, handing off his reins to a guard. Hungary hangs back, holding on to Janus's sleeve. He looks at her questioningly. They are far from alone here. His travelling companions surround them. Nonetheless, she whispers, "What did the Pope say?"
Janus looks around, as if the bare-branched trees or the fox watching them from the underbrush or the three birds silhouetted against the clouds could carry on the news. "He has offered money, to aid us against the Ottomans. As for Bohemia's king, he will soon, I am told, be excommunicated. We may act as we wish."
She would wonder why the thought seems to bring him no joy, but there is a whistle from the cart and the noise of a trunk falling open. "Wow," comes Poland's voice, exuberant as always, extravagant without reason. "What a haul. You must've really had a good time in Italy."
Janus laughs and agrees, and does not bring up politics.
--
[August, anno domini 1468, Krakow]
Hungary watches them down the length of the table. Casimir is praying, as he always seems to do before a meal. Hedwig is already halfway through her soup. "She's a sweet girl," Hungary says, not for the first time. "We could wait a few years. Three or four. I would take good care of her."
"Sorry." Poland folds his hands carefully on the table and looks serene. The light contrives to arch through the window and penetrate the dusty air at just the right angle to gleam off his hair. He's dressed in fine red velvet, the kind of expensive stuff Hungary would never be able to move comfortably in, and the effect of that and the light off his blond hair is something like an icon. Which, knowing Poland, is probably quite deliberate. He always had a flair for the dramatic.
She went to his room last night to talk, persuade him to come to an agreement, because she can smell a storm coming and it would be harder for them to fight if their kings were joined by a marriage. Harder. Not impossible. But he was not in his room.
"What would you have of me? I don't want a war between us, truly. We have the same ambitions, we want the Ottomans driven away, we want - our kings want -"
" - our kings want Bohemia." Poland absently stabs at his bread. "It's all politics, you know that," he continues, voice gentler.
At the other end of the table, Hedwig is arguing with her brother John, although it's impossible to tell what about. Then again, they're young and they're siblings. The miracle is that Casimir doesn't seem to have been drawn in. Hungary props her chin on her hands. "Where were you last night? I know you weren't with Lithuania, he's not even here." Poland blushes and tries to look innocent. Must have been a human, then, and she thinks she knows which one. "Come to think of it, where is he?"
"Off north. Setting up an alliance with Novgorod. And you know, Novgorod doesn't exactly acknowledge the Pope, but he's a lot more Christian than the Ottoman Empire. If we're being political."
There are too many humans around to say what she wants to say to Poland. She's not even sure what it would be. "We're always being political," Hungary says instead. "It comes of having kings."
--
Hedwig thinks Poland's in the kitchens. The chief cook thinks he's in the chapel. He isn't, but Janus is, and assures her that Poland is in the gardens with Casimir. The young one, not his king, he adds. Hungary thanks him and hurries off again. She nearly suspects Poland of doing it on purpose. But he's in the garden, after all, on a little stone bench beside a bed of flowers she should probably know the names of, but doesn't. He looks cheerful, for once. A pleasant surprise; Hungary finds herself lingering in the door, watching as Casimir, eyes closed in concentration, declaims something in Latin - a poem, it sounds like, although she's just too far to make out most of the words. Poland raises a finger and answers. What are they doing? He must be helping the boy with his lessons. There's a squawk, and she looks down. A crow looks back up at her, and squawks again, ruffling its feathers.
"Go away, you, I don't have any food for you," she tells it. It keeps glaring. "Go! Shoo!" She doesn't expect it to stand still for the kick, and it doesn't; it takes off in a flurry of caws and feathers, managing to look incredibly indignant.
The noise is enough to interrupt the peaceful little scene, though. Poland looks up, and then he waves her over, grinning. "I don't know why the birds keep showing up," he confides, "it's not like anybody feeds them. Come on, sit with us." On the edge of the roof, the crow settles besides three of it brethren with a ruffle of feathers, fading into the shadow. The shadows feel too long for August, and she knows that is an illusion; only the cold is real.
There isn't really room on the bench for her. Casimir stands up, bowing graciously. "Do you know who I am?" she asks him.
"I do. Hungary. The Kingdom of Saint Mary." He doesn't bother with flowery language; maybe Poland warned him about her preferences, or maybe he simply guessed, as she began with a simple question. Hungary decides she likes the boy already.
Poland cuts in, "A good friend. A real good friend, you know? Her king is a bit hard to deal with, but - " He shrugs, as if to dismiss every bad king a nation has ever been required to put up with. Hungary feels her fist clench; she knows Poland means nothing dangerous by it, but she hates to listen to a slander like that, the more so when she and Janus and the embassy rode all the way to Krakow over bad roads to arrange her king's new marriage, and it seems as if no marriage will happen. If they can't ride home with Hedwig, she doesn't know what will happen next.
But what happens right now is that Casimir smiles, and says, "I am glad for it. You are our first defense against the heathen Turks - my lady - " he stumbles there; most people do, they have no idea what the respectful term is - "and I hope that friendship stays strong."
"It would be stronger, if my king were to marry your sister."
Poland sighs, looking put-upon, and crosses his arms. But all he actually says is, "You know, Janus wrote down some of his poems for me last night. They were really lovely poems. And they were in Latin, so if you want to see them, Casimir, they'd be good practice."
--
When she rides away, on her vast white horse, there's an undercurrent of worry, a knot in the pit of her stomach. Of all the fronts she could be fighting on - well, the Ottoman empire is quiet now, heathens though they may be. She may be Saint Mary's kingdom, but she remembers her roots. There are worse things in the world than heathens. The war in Bohemia, she is going to win. Of course she will, with such a king leading it. That leaves Poland. She does not want a war with Poland. She does now know why he would. But she can think of no other reason for his reticence, unless his king is planning something.
What a waste of an embassy.
The horses keep a fast pace, at her urging; she can feel the autumn winds in her bones and she wants to be home, home faster than humans can travel.
--
[May, anno domini 1471, Prague]
Hungary is downright terrifying in all that black armour, and Poland can't remember the last time he's seen such an expression on her face. It isn't righteous fury, not precisely. Righteousness is not a defining characteristic of hers; she puts on Christianity like a cloak when she wants a crusade, and Poland is not sure if she even knows how well she does it. But there is fury. "Hey," he says, doing his best to sound soothing. "Hey, you still have Moravia."
"Is that meant for a comfort?" She crosses her arms and - doesn't exactly lean against the edge of the window, but whatever she does, it puts half of her in the light and half in the shadow. It hides any trace of expression on her face.
He takes a deep breath. "Yes. We can come to an agreement, I think. Wouldn't you rather go back to fighting the Ottomans? You have a wonderful army, but it's only one army. Look, none of this is personal."
"No," she says, and spins on her heel. Behind her the four soldiers in black stiffen, snap to attention. The discontented papists of Bohemia have nothing to complain of now; Bohemia has a Catholic king, and he is Poland's own king's son. Prague is his. He wonder if Hungary is going to attack the Holy Roman Empire instead; there are treaties, but there are so many treaties, so many broken, that Poland doesn't think a treaty would stop anyone. He's not going to press south; he has problems enough with the Ordenstaat. So that leaves the field open for her, except he doesn't think she's thinking in terms of consolation prizes right now. She's thinking in terms of taking over the world. She's stalking out of the audience chamber, and the footfalls of her black-clad soldiers are like the clang of some terrible machine. Of course they are. They're professionals, men who are nothing but soldiers, with no farms to go home to, and Poland almost pities them for that but there is no room for pity in this game.
They know. They all know. Their kings can talk about God and glory and right, and deep down they still know that they fight for land, for grain, for timber, for metal to pound out plowshares. And more swords, of course. Always more swords.
He stands there for a very long time after she leaves, staring at the wall and thinking of the future, until Bohemia comes looking for him.
--
There are owls nesting in the this tower, Bohemia told him, and then started telling him about all the renovations he'd like to do; Poland approves of renovations on principle, and right now the only nice thing about this particular tower is that it's deserted.
Hungary plants her chin on her hands and stares out across the city. "It's all politics," she says, not really talking to Poland except that there's nobody else there she could be talking to. "Does anyone truly love their God?"
"Plenty of my people say they do, but it's hard to tell. I think Casimir means it, perhaps. The young one, not my king." Poland shrugs. "It scarcely matters to such as us, does it? We die when we're forgotten. If we have souls, they aren't like the souls of men."
"And here I thought you were a Christian."
"I am." He keeps smiling, even though Hungary is facing away from him. Even now she has no fear of him; that's good. "But I'm not a foolish one. I intend to live forever, and I intend to do it here, on this earth. Well, not this earth specifically, Prague's nice and all but it's Bohemia's, you know? But where my people are." He's not sure when that became his ambition. Of course none of them intend to die, but it happens, and sometimes they hardly fight it. But he thinks that as long as there are people who say they are his, who believe that whatever else they believe, he can keep living. "Isn't it more important whether anyone truly loves us?"
Hungary laughs, the sound harsh as a crow's caw. She tosses her head and her hair glimmers, catching the sunset light. "But they do. They give us everything, down to their last breath."
He wishes he had something to fiddle with - he has his sword, of course, but he's not about to touch it, or his dagger, and these are nice clothes and he doesn't want to unravel something accidentally. Hungary is thinking of war again, Poland is sure of it. But her king has lost his taste for fighting the Ottomans, and the matter of Bohemia is drawing to a close. What's left? Austria? Somewhere down below, a bell begins to ring out the announcement of noon. Fifteen years, now, and the Pope has yet to rescind that order; they will be celebrating Hunyadi's victory, he thinks, until Hunyadi is long forgotten. And what of Hunyadi's son? Why has Hungary's king let it go?
Politics, of course, but still it makes him itch. He comes up behind Hungary, careful that his feet fall heavy on the floor, and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Are you still mad at me?"
"Because Bohemia's king left his crown to your king's son? That's Bohemia's folly, not yours." She half-shrugs, with the left shoulder, the one he is not touching. "No. I can find other ambitions, for the moment."
She is aching for a battle. Just as well. Poland thinks of the letters Janus has been sending him, and smiles. He lets his fingers slide under her collar and stroke her neck, gently, butterfly-soft, glad beyond reckoning that she changed out of her armour. She is divided about something, but not too divided; she is never too divided for long. She is strong, and brave, and he is glad to be so close to her. They could do great things together, he thinks. He brushes aside the soft sweep of her hair, and drops a kiss against the joint of her neck and shoulder. Far below then Prague bustles on; if anyone has paid heed to the question of kingship - which they certainly have, he knows - it cannot be seen from so high. The sun pours over the city, the castle and the red-roofed houses and the churches, and enough pours in the casement where they rest that it warms them, just a little. Poland wishes, with the desperation of someone for whom prayers are only a recital, that all will go as planned.
He misses Liet, off in the cold north, making the best of things, trying to make an alliance with Novgorod because they must stand together, or they will all fall. He has heard dark tales of Moscow. He suppresses the shiver, and whispers to Hungary how glad he is to be her friend.
--
[November, anno domini 1471, somewhere outside Nitra]
He's somewhere nearby. She can feel it. Somewhere in the forest, and if she looks, she will find him; their kind are drawn to each other. So Hungary climbs onto her big white horse, and rides out. No one remarks on her leaving; even if not all the Black Army are her people, they still know better than to get in her way.
The white snow glitters and the grey sky gleams with the hidden sun, and bare trees arch bleak against the sky. There are tantalizing hints of patterns in their tangle, and the shadows they cast across the forest floor. Her breath clouds the air. So does her horse's. The gentle thud of hooves through the snow is the only noise.
She hears something, looks up, and there is a vast dark crow flapping down beside her. Hungary yanks on the reins and her horse rears back. The crow calls out something that might be a laugh, and glides ahead of her. She follows; following crows cannot be a bad plan, not when she is looking for a fight. They have taken to calling her king Corvinus, and not Hunyadi any longer, for the crow on his family crest. They tell stories of miracles, too.
The people like him. Any strong king is ascribed miracles, Janus said to her, and told her stories of Charlemagne and Arthur Pendragon.
If she ever sees Janus again she's going to punch him.
The wind picks up and she rides on, as fast as she can travel safely; she would not want her horse to be hurt. There are no leaves for it to whistle through, except the tiny leaves of mistletoe nestled in the dead branches arching up to the sky. Poland is close; she can sense his presence, dimly glowing through the trees. Why he left the safety of Nitra she doesn't know, but perhaps his reasons were the same as hers, and the confrontation is inevitable. His king thought she would switch sides. Maybe he still harbours delusions, thinks he can convince her to come aid him. He will not. She loves her king. The crow turns west, screeching over the wind, and she follows. There are more of them now, gathering like stormclouds in the winter air, some of them so close together their shapes might as well be one. But she does not have time to watch them, not really, because Poland is so close she can taste it on the air. He feels like a field in autumn, ready for the harvest, even in winter.
Her sword is out and she is galloping before she sees him. He rides a sorrel mare, as big as her white stallion, a spot of harsh colour in the washed-out world. His sword is out as well, but he isn't holding it quite correctly. He must not believe that she means to harm him. The trees are close enough that there is hardly room to maneuver; she dodges a sapling, and he is still not moving, although his horse rears up in place, hooves pounding in the snow. She cannot make out his expression. Their swords ring on each other, and then she is past and wheels around, and then the crows are descending, a mass of black feather. Poland screams, and drops the reins to fend them off; his horse rears up again and he almost slides off, but grabs her mane in time. Hungary takes careful aim, and the birds part just in time, and she digs her heels in. The blow is straight and true.
At the last second she twists her sword to sweep him down with the flat.
when the moment of noise and confusion is over, she takes stock. Poland lies between the roots of a tree, and six crows have perched in its branches, congratulating themselves aloud. His eyes are unfocused, and his sword is gone; it lies in the snow, an arm's length away. His horse is stamping her feet, some distance away. And Hungary is still on her horse, still holding her sword.
She does not draw out the process, but neither does she hurry as she dismounts, pads over to him, and presses the tip of her sword beneath his chin. That draws his focus. She can see the way his pale throat moves as he swallows. "Mag - "
"You thought you could just ride in and take over?"
"I thought you liked Casimir!" He plants a hand on the ground, as if bracing himself to rise, but he will not rise with her sword there. "He's a good kid. He'd make a good king. And he wouldn't drag you off to try and conquer Bohemia and waste your time dicking around with the Holy Roman Empire when the Ottoman Empire is still making noise about invading you. Come on, Mag - Janus said the people would love it. He said he had the support of half your court."
"Had." Her lips draw back, in something that's almost a smile. "My king found out. He talked to some people. Made them see reason. And you're going to see reason too."
Poland isn't really smiling, but he seems more annoyed than afraid. She'll have to fix that. This is a little enough thing, really; he has slain no citizens, sacked no towns, done nothing but advance his army and occupy a city whose gates were thrown open to him. So she will not destroy him, only send him whimpering home with his ragged little army.
"Come on, this isn't - you - " He swallows again, fists clenching convulsively. "You wouldn't really hurt me."
"I might," she taunts, and forces his chin up a little. The point digs in just enough to let a lone drop of blood escape, as if he had cut himself shaving. As if he were old enough to need to. His breathing is heavy and ragged. "Your sweetheart's not here to save you this time. Where is he, anyway? Still off making time with Novgorod?"
That - that shouldn't be the thing that makes him go pale, even flushed as he is with cold and exertion. He lies still, a red splotch against the snow, fading further in with every breath. "You havn't heard?"
"Heard what?" He doesn't answer right away. She pulls her sword back a few inches, to give him room to breathe. "Poland? What's the matter?"
"Novgorod's dead."
--
The crows don't follow them back to camp.
There are protests when she brings someone who's obviously a Polish officer into the camp, but she snaps that he is there for parley, and no one has the nerve to ask for his sword. In her tent Poland collapses on her bedroll.
"You'll go back to Krakow," she says, and starts unbuckling her sword. "Forget this invasion. I don't care what Janus told you, I like my king."
"Even if he makes you fight Bohemia when you should be off battling the infidel?" Poland throws an arm over his eyes.
"Is that how they talked Casimir into it?" He doesn't bother to answer. She has to know that, she met Casimir, and Casimir believes in the way that only humans can, humans with their fifty or sixty years and the promise of heaven at the end of it all. It hurts him to think about, how Casimir had smiled, how he had promised to do Hungary proud, to drive back the Ottomans, to rule with mercy and charity, to do it all for the glory of God. What has God ever done for them? "He's a nice kid. Should have known better, though."
"Look - I can't just turn around and go home for no reason."
"Then we'll harass your army a bit first. Nobody gets killed. And if you leave by January, we'll offer a peace agreement."
She sounds perfectly confident. She always does. Hungary has this annoying habit of acting like she runs the world - isn't that Austria's thing? - but at least she does it gloriously. He can stand to go with someone else's plan right now. His is pretty much a loss. If they can go home without looking any more stupid, that's good enough. He has enough to worry about, or at least Liet does and that's the same thing, now. The Ordenstaat's been no more annoying than usual. Bohemia might as well be his vassal now. That leaves Moscow. He shivers whenever he thinks of it. Moscow is bold, and hard-edged, the way a nation gets when they live under a cruel foreign master. And he slew his brother. He must have, for Novgorod has vanished, and only the battle with Moscow could have slain him. If Moscow decides to head west and take his sisters back -
Hungary crouches beside the bedroll and peels Poland's hand away from his eyes. He blinks up at her, wanting very badly, suddenly, to be home.
"Hey, Polska," she says. "Do you still want to live forever?"
"Of course."
He doesn't know why she's asking. The answer seems to satisfy her, though. She sits back and folds her arms. "Will you stay here tonight? It's getting dark. Go back in the morning. They must know the invasion is a failure by now. Tell them we'll give them easy peace terms. My king has no taste for vengeance."
Poland takes deep breaths. Her tent is small and heavy with snow and warm, so warm he can feel it in his bones. Hungary is watching him, with something akin to shadows in her eyes. "I'll stay," he says.
--
[long before]
She wipes her eyes, and very firmly does not cry in front of her people. Her people, now, because her father is dead.
Her father's horse, big and white and spirited, bows his head, as if to join in their grief. She wraps her arms around the horse's neck while she considers. If their king had died, they would bury him, with twenty-five arrows. But her father was greater than any king, and he left no body to bury. Her king waits in silence, and the silence fills the little ring of people, until it seems like a breath would break something, and she knows that if someone were to touch her, she would not be able to hold back her tears.
"A hundred and eight arrows," she tells them, doing her best to make her voice firm and commanding. "We will sacrifice my father's horse, and bury the horse in his place. With a hundred and eight arrows. One for every clan."
Her king bows his head. "A just tribute, for our nation," he says, and looks around, at the green fields stretching away, the mountains barely visible, faded with distance and shading blue into the sky. There are crows circling, somewhere high above. They'll come down for the sacrifice. They always do. "What does this mean? He led us to this land. He said it should be our home."
It is a beautiful place, and her father wandered halfway across the world to find it, and she has known no other. She wants to stay here, she thinks. Her people can spread out, and fill the plains. There must be neighbors. She'll find them, and maybe some of them will be friends, and if they aren't friendly, well, her people can deal with that too. They know how to fight, and how to conquer.
"It is," she says, and knows it for the truth as she says it. "This is my home. This is your country, and I am your nation now."
--
--
An attempt to annotate this properly would be as long as the fic, so I'll just note that my major sources were The Raven King: Matthias Corvinus And The Fate Of His Lost Library by Marcus Tanner, which is a fascinating book and well worth reading (also, as far as I can tell, the only book on the topic in English) and The Spirit of Hungary by Stephen Sisa, which is available online, albeit without the illustrations, if you're curious. I don't speak Hungarian, so my options for sources were somewhat limited. I hope that I've been accurate and respectful as regards historical personages, and apologize for any errors.
Although I tried to keep the fic historically accurate, I have filled in with imagination what I couldn't find sources for, and fudged details for the sake of the narrative. The Thirteen Year's War did not actually start until 1454, although it was pretty obvious that it was going to. George of Podiebrad's project to unite Europe is discussed extensively here - in French, which I am far from fluent in. At some point in 1468, Matthias did try to arrange a marriage with the King of Poland's daughter. I could not discover when in 1468 or which daughter, so I picked Hedwig because she was the oldest, and sent Janus Pannonius to arrange it because I wanted to give him the chance to leap into bed with talk to Poland. Although Janus Pannonius was deeply involved with the 1471 plot, I have entirely neglected the important roles played by his uncle Janos Vitez, Archbishop of Esztergom, and Osvald Thuz, Bishop of Zagreb. Finally, while the Novgorod Reupblic was dealt a crippling blow at the Battle of Shelon River, it retained nominal independence for a further seven years, until, in 1478, the city was sacked by Muscovite troops. In Hetalian terms, this means Poland is mistaken about his demise - but won't be for long.
Thank you for such a challenging and fun prompt. I could have written a novel on this, and hope to return to the time period in further fics!
by gisho
Prompt: "Poland/Hungary, in the early modern era. I'd love to see you take on the reign of Matthias Corvinus, the Raven King of Hungary, and his battles against St. Casimir, king of Poland for control of Central Europe in 1470-71. Poland and Hungary are very similar in the 1470s; the discourse on Christian kingship and right methods of diplomacy and rule ... they are both ascendant, under magnificent kings, and coming into their own power. And they clash, despite -- or because of -- wanting so much of the same thing. (Also, something about Catholicism and the remnants of Eastern European paganism in conflict would be fascinating. Corvinus has all these legends about being saved by crows...)"
Hungary/Poland. PG-13, contains violence. The fifteenth century - the world is changing, and Hungary and Poland must try to adapt and hold onto their identities. And, of course, get as much territory as they can grab.
--
--
[June, anno domini 1453, Krakow]
"Constantinople is dead," is the first thing that Hungary says, even before she dismounts.
It's a nice day, and the sun is shining. Poland's smile was sun-bright; now it falls away from his face. "Mother Mary, why don't you start with the bad news?"
"The Ottoman Empire. About a month ago. Help me down?"
She doesn't need the help, but it gives them an excuse to embrace. Her horse whinnies, and stomps his feet. Like all her horses, he's spirited, white, and enormous. Hungary turns to pat his flank, still heaving with the exertion of the gallop to Krakow. Poland does the same, stretching to scratch at his ears. He huffs appreciatively, and when Poland offers him a lump of sugar he nuzzles at his fingers. Poland has always been extravagant, and feeding sugar to a horse is not a strange indulgence, for him. "I'm sorry," Hungary begins. "You must have been hoping I would have good news."
"Yeah." Poland gives her horse a final pat, and takes the reins. "Better than that, at least, if you came all the way to Krakow to bring it to me. The Ottoman Empires is entirely too ambitious," he adds, voice dull and bitter. He has not forgotten how his last king - their last king - died on the fields of Varna. "At least you're next. I mean, not that I wish a war on you, but you, you could win."
There are humans, scurrying around the courtyard, but nobody moves to take her horse as they walk toward the stables. Perhaps they know what Poland is and don't care to interrupt the discussion, or perhaps they're simply afraid of the horse, docile though he is now after the long ride. From the battlements a lone raven eyes them sideways, ruffling its wings.
"I will." She grins, remembering the heat of the battlefield, the heady smell of blood. "I might even have allies. My boss has written to the Pope, asking for aid."
"Ladislaus? I didn't think the little runt cared."
Her grin widens. "I meant Hunyadi."
--
It occurs to Poland, sometime around the third bottle of wine, that someone will have to tell Lithuania's Russian territories. That someone will probably be him. He announces it to the setting sun, hands clenched on the windowsill. He looks older, Hungary thinks. "You don't think they'll take the news well?"
"They follow her church. They looked up to her." He half-shrugs, and continues in the same quiet, weary voice, "We all did."
Hungary toys with her goblet. It has a pattern of twining leaves embossed on it, and rubies set on the sides. Poland had been too shaken to press fresh clothes on her, which was perhaps just as well; he liked to give her beautiful gowns, the kind of thing that would get ripped to bits after three days in the saddle. She should keep a room here, like Lithuania does. She comes to Krakow often enough.
The silence must annoy Poland. He only lets it stand for a few moments before he continues, "It just seemed like - like something that would always be true. That there would always be a Roman Empire. And now there isn't a Roman Empire anymore."
"There's the Holy Roman Empire." She takes a gulp of wine.
Poland waves a hand and turns round, leaning against the windowsill. "Doesn't count. He just calls himself Roman. Because of the Pope. You know." He seems to be trying to think of something, but it eludes him, and scowling, he returns to her side. "I don't see why the Pope likes him so much. We're just as Christian, aren't we? Forget the damn Empire. He's falling to bits, you know, it's just a matter of time." His fingers on Hungary's wrist are very warm, and his breath is warm on her ear, and it's very easy, far too easy, to think just how little her king cares for her right now. Her leather cuirass creaks as she leans against Poland. The noise is enough to startle them, though, and suddenly they're both sitting upright, not quite touching, breathing harder than they should be.
Not right now, Hungary tells herself. Not right now. They're neither of them anywhere near sober, and Poland has scarcely touched her since the Union of Krewo. She doesn't like to think that she misses it. Constantinople is dead. The Ottomans are advancing on her southern borders. "Will you come fight them with me?"
She realizes she did not specify who, but Poland doesn't seem to notice. He turns away, and there it is again, the encroaching age. Age doesn't suit him. "Love to, but I'm busy. With your old friend the Ordenstaat, you know. I should be in Danzig right now. You know Liet's hardly speaking to me? Not that that's new, I swear we spend more time arguing than - " He breaks off, voice wavering. "It's not supposed to be like this."
Hungary cannot think of anything to say to that, so she offers him her goblet. He takes it and drains the rest in one gulp.
--
And much later, with the fire flickering, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and cradles her head against her breast. Once, she thinks, he would not have lit a fire in June, even this far north. Or is she only remembering that it was warm because they were so young? The world always seems colder now. Snow on the mountains, and rivers frozen over, and fires in June. "It's all over," Poland whispers to her, and she cannot bring herself to disagree. "Without Constantinople. Something is over. The world is different now. We just have to keep going somehow." She kisses his forehead and thinks of the screams of dying horses.
--
[February, anno domini 1458, Buda]
There are bells ringing, as they always ring now, at noon. Poland looks up at the belltower; two crows launch themselves from it with outraged squawks. Hungary grins. The hilt of her sword glistens. "He'll be here soon."
"Yeah. So when are you holding the coronation?"
"Once I have my crown back." Okay, that's obviously a sore subject. Poland does his best to look apologetic. He has no real reason to be here; the Hunyadi boy is not his king. But it's an improvement on being in the north. He's sick of the Ordenstaat, and his raucous laugh, and Hungary is more than congenial company. Besides, they have to talk about Bohemia at some point.
They're not really high enough to see all of Buda, but from what he can see the place looks pretty good. Clean. The Danube is still frozen over; Pest huddles up against its other side, like it's trying to keep warm. She said her people actually met on the Danube, out in the middle of the ice, to make the Hunyadi boy her king. He can believe it. There's a crowd out there now, and what looks like a few enterprising market stalls - maybe later on, they can walk down and have dinner. Assuming her king arrives before they give up and send someone to find food for them.
Hungary leans back, rearranging her sword so as not to interfere. She looks utterly at home, sprawled out over the cathedral roof. This is her home ground, and her king is riding home, and the bells rang to commemorate her victory. Her victory over the infidel, so it was all their victory, really. Poland winces surreptitiously. He wonders what the Pope must think of him right now - but by Mother Mary, the Ordenstaat never learns, and if people want to be Polish he's not about to turn them down. There are more important things than the Pope's opinion.
Constantinople, for example.
"Hey," Hungary says, squinting at the clouds. "I wonder if he's bringing his bride. He didn't say, when he wrote me."
"He's getting married?"
"To the daughter of George of Podiebrad. Not right away, the poor girl's only nine," she adds. Poland plants an elbow on the roof, turning to look at her. Her eyes are closed. "He's going to be King of Bohemia as soon as they get things worked out. George, I mean. Bohemia's so happy."
Poland does not share his opinion of Bohemia. "So he's your ally still?"
"Indeed." Her eyes are open now, bright with an acquisitive glint. "And if things work out, Austria might - hey! Hey, he's here!" She scrambles to her feet, almost sliding down the roof a few feet in the process. "He's at the gate, come on, we might be able to see the procession." Poland tries to follow, and does slip, and utters a few things the Pope certainly wouldn't approve of. She gives him a hand up, laughing.
As they scramble across the roof to get a glimpse, their breath leaves a trail of clouds in the air.
--
[November, anno domini 1465, Buda]
"He's not such a bad sort. For a heretic. I thought your boss liked him." Poland frowns, and squints at the altar.
"What are you up to?"
"No, I mean it. Even if he did get excommunicated. Remember that treaty he was sending around? Back when your boss married his daughter? Bohemia came and talked to me about it, and - there were good ideas in there."
Hungary runs a finger along her collar. She can never get used to women's clothing. It feels too fine, and it suits her no better than Poland's soldier's garb suits him. "As if four nations could ever agree on anything."
"More than four," Poland reminds her. He almost sounds wistful, which is odd from someone who tries so hard to live in the present. "All of Europe. Eventually. All of Christendom."
His sweetheart Lithuania, the one he fights with as if they've been together a thousand years and not eighty - he was not Christian, eighty years ago. Perhaps that's why Poland dredged up the old Roman word. Europa. She likes the sound of it, when she considers it. Hungary is not old enough to remember Rome, but it is impossible not to know the footsteps he left. He was not Christian either, until a few centuries before his death. He left idols of bronze and temples of white marble, and what did their old gods leave them? The icon of Mary smiles serenely down on them.
"There's no reason we couldn't form an alliance, though," Poland continues. "Just the four of us. You, me, Bohemia, Austria. Before the Ottoman Empire tries anything more."
"Austria? A military alliance?" She laughs, once, harsh and ringing.
The noise of it echoes through the little chapel, and Poland jerks in surprise and turns to look at her, instead of the altar. He's spent most of the evening avoiding her eyes. "Mag, what are you up to?"
Mary's smile is no more serene than Hungary's. No more serene nor inscrutable.
--
They meet a league outside the city. Janus is riding a huge white stallion, like Hungary's, but he looks as if he would dearly love to get off it. Poland smothers a laugh and spurs his dapple-grey horse forward to greet him. In the mess of human travellers he shines like a jewel on a tarnished chain, though Hungary is the only one who can see.
Hungary follows; they ride slowly, letting the rest of the party slip past, and there are laughs and fond words and she finally introduces Poland, who has put on his most charming smile. The snow is already dusting his hair white. "A pleasure," he says. Janus returns the smile. By the time the wagon has caught up to them, they are laughing together like old friends.
The guards make alarmed noises, but they know Janus and no-one disobeys Hungary, even if they don't recognize her. Poland is allowed to scramble inside, handing off his reins to a guard. Hungary hangs back, holding on to Janus's sleeve. He looks at her questioningly. They are far from alone here. His travelling companions surround them. Nonetheless, she whispers, "What did the Pope say?"
Janus looks around, as if the bare-branched trees or the fox watching them from the underbrush or the three birds silhouetted against the clouds could carry on the news. "He has offered money, to aid us against the Ottomans. As for Bohemia's king, he will soon, I am told, be excommunicated. We may act as we wish."
She would wonder why the thought seems to bring him no joy, but there is a whistle from the cart and the noise of a trunk falling open. "Wow," comes Poland's voice, exuberant as always, extravagant without reason. "What a haul. You must've really had a good time in Italy."
Janus laughs and agrees, and does not bring up politics.
--
[August, anno domini 1468, Krakow]
Hungary watches them down the length of the table. Casimir is praying, as he always seems to do before a meal. Hedwig is already halfway through her soup. "She's a sweet girl," Hungary says, not for the first time. "We could wait a few years. Three or four. I would take good care of her."
"Sorry." Poland folds his hands carefully on the table and looks serene. The light contrives to arch through the window and penetrate the dusty air at just the right angle to gleam off his hair. He's dressed in fine red velvet, the kind of expensive stuff Hungary would never be able to move comfortably in, and the effect of that and the light off his blond hair is something like an icon. Which, knowing Poland, is probably quite deliberate. He always had a flair for the dramatic.
She went to his room last night to talk, persuade him to come to an agreement, because she can smell a storm coming and it would be harder for them to fight if their kings were joined by a marriage. Harder. Not impossible. But he was not in his room.
"What would you have of me? I don't want a war between us, truly. We have the same ambitions, we want the Ottomans driven away, we want - our kings want -"
" - our kings want Bohemia." Poland absently stabs at his bread. "It's all politics, you know that," he continues, voice gentler.
At the other end of the table, Hedwig is arguing with her brother John, although it's impossible to tell what about. Then again, they're young and they're siblings. The miracle is that Casimir doesn't seem to have been drawn in. Hungary props her chin on her hands. "Where were you last night? I know you weren't with Lithuania, he's not even here." Poland blushes and tries to look innocent. Must have been a human, then, and she thinks she knows which one. "Come to think of it, where is he?"
"Off north. Setting up an alliance with Novgorod. And you know, Novgorod doesn't exactly acknowledge the Pope, but he's a lot more Christian than the Ottoman Empire. If we're being political."
There are too many humans around to say what she wants to say to Poland. She's not even sure what it would be. "We're always being political," Hungary says instead. "It comes of having kings."
--
Hedwig thinks Poland's in the kitchens. The chief cook thinks he's in the chapel. He isn't, but Janus is, and assures her that Poland is in the gardens with Casimir. The young one, not his king, he adds. Hungary thanks him and hurries off again. She nearly suspects Poland of doing it on purpose. But he's in the garden, after all, on a little stone bench beside a bed of flowers she should probably know the names of, but doesn't. He looks cheerful, for once. A pleasant surprise; Hungary finds herself lingering in the door, watching as Casimir, eyes closed in concentration, declaims something in Latin - a poem, it sounds like, although she's just too far to make out most of the words. Poland raises a finger and answers. What are they doing? He must be helping the boy with his lessons. There's a squawk, and she looks down. A crow looks back up at her, and squawks again, ruffling its feathers.
"Go away, you, I don't have any food for you," she tells it. It keeps glaring. "Go! Shoo!" She doesn't expect it to stand still for the kick, and it doesn't; it takes off in a flurry of caws and feathers, managing to look incredibly indignant.
The noise is enough to interrupt the peaceful little scene, though. Poland looks up, and then he waves her over, grinning. "I don't know why the birds keep showing up," he confides, "it's not like anybody feeds them. Come on, sit with us." On the edge of the roof, the crow settles besides three of it brethren with a ruffle of feathers, fading into the shadow. The shadows feel too long for August, and she knows that is an illusion; only the cold is real.
There isn't really room on the bench for her. Casimir stands up, bowing graciously. "Do you know who I am?" she asks him.
"I do. Hungary. The Kingdom of Saint Mary." He doesn't bother with flowery language; maybe Poland warned him about her preferences, or maybe he simply guessed, as she began with a simple question. Hungary decides she likes the boy already.
Poland cuts in, "A good friend. A real good friend, you know? Her king is a bit hard to deal with, but - " He shrugs, as if to dismiss every bad king a nation has ever been required to put up with. Hungary feels her fist clench; she knows Poland means nothing dangerous by it, but she hates to listen to a slander like that, the more so when she and Janus and the embassy rode all the way to Krakow over bad roads to arrange her king's new marriage, and it seems as if no marriage will happen. If they can't ride home with Hedwig, she doesn't know what will happen next.
But what happens right now is that Casimir smiles, and says, "I am glad for it. You are our first defense against the heathen Turks - my lady - " he stumbles there; most people do, they have no idea what the respectful term is - "and I hope that friendship stays strong."
"It would be stronger, if my king were to marry your sister."
Poland sighs, looking put-upon, and crosses his arms. But all he actually says is, "You know, Janus wrote down some of his poems for me last night. They were really lovely poems. And they were in Latin, so if you want to see them, Casimir, they'd be good practice."
--
When she rides away, on her vast white horse, there's an undercurrent of worry, a knot in the pit of her stomach. Of all the fronts she could be fighting on - well, the Ottoman empire is quiet now, heathens though they may be. She may be Saint Mary's kingdom, but she remembers her roots. There are worse things in the world than heathens. The war in Bohemia, she is going to win. Of course she will, with such a king leading it. That leaves Poland. She does not want a war with Poland. She does now know why he would. But she can think of no other reason for his reticence, unless his king is planning something.
What a waste of an embassy.
The horses keep a fast pace, at her urging; she can feel the autumn winds in her bones and she wants to be home, home faster than humans can travel.
--
[May, anno domini 1471, Prague]
Hungary is downright terrifying in all that black armour, and Poland can't remember the last time he's seen such an expression on her face. It isn't righteous fury, not precisely. Righteousness is not a defining characteristic of hers; she puts on Christianity like a cloak when she wants a crusade, and Poland is not sure if she even knows how well she does it. But there is fury. "Hey," he says, doing his best to sound soothing. "Hey, you still have Moravia."
"Is that meant for a comfort?" She crosses her arms and - doesn't exactly lean against the edge of the window, but whatever she does, it puts half of her in the light and half in the shadow. It hides any trace of expression on her face.
He takes a deep breath. "Yes. We can come to an agreement, I think. Wouldn't you rather go back to fighting the Ottomans? You have a wonderful army, but it's only one army. Look, none of this is personal."
"No," she says, and spins on her heel. Behind her the four soldiers in black stiffen, snap to attention. The discontented papists of Bohemia have nothing to complain of now; Bohemia has a Catholic king, and he is Poland's own king's son. Prague is his. He wonder if Hungary is going to attack the Holy Roman Empire instead; there are treaties, but there are so many treaties, so many broken, that Poland doesn't think a treaty would stop anyone. He's not going to press south; he has problems enough with the Ordenstaat. So that leaves the field open for her, except he doesn't think she's thinking in terms of consolation prizes right now. She's thinking in terms of taking over the world. She's stalking out of the audience chamber, and the footfalls of her black-clad soldiers are like the clang of some terrible machine. Of course they are. They're professionals, men who are nothing but soldiers, with no farms to go home to, and Poland almost pities them for that but there is no room for pity in this game.
They know. They all know. Their kings can talk about God and glory and right, and deep down they still know that they fight for land, for grain, for timber, for metal to pound out plowshares. And more swords, of course. Always more swords.
He stands there for a very long time after she leaves, staring at the wall and thinking of the future, until Bohemia comes looking for him.
--
There are owls nesting in the this tower, Bohemia told him, and then started telling him about all the renovations he'd like to do; Poland approves of renovations on principle, and right now the only nice thing about this particular tower is that it's deserted.
Hungary plants her chin on her hands and stares out across the city. "It's all politics," she says, not really talking to Poland except that there's nobody else there she could be talking to. "Does anyone truly love their God?"
"Plenty of my people say they do, but it's hard to tell. I think Casimir means it, perhaps. The young one, not my king." Poland shrugs. "It scarcely matters to such as us, does it? We die when we're forgotten. If we have souls, they aren't like the souls of men."
"And here I thought you were a Christian."
"I am." He keeps smiling, even though Hungary is facing away from him. Even now she has no fear of him; that's good. "But I'm not a foolish one. I intend to live forever, and I intend to do it here, on this earth. Well, not this earth specifically, Prague's nice and all but it's Bohemia's, you know? But where my people are." He's not sure when that became his ambition. Of course none of them intend to die, but it happens, and sometimes they hardly fight it. But he thinks that as long as there are people who say they are his, who believe that whatever else they believe, he can keep living. "Isn't it more important whether anyone truly loves us?"
Hungary laughs, the sound harsh as a crow's caw. She tosses her head and her hair glimmers, catching the sunset light. "But they do. They give us everything, down to their last breath."
He wishes he had something to fiddle with - he has his sword, of course, but he's not about to touch it, or his dagger, and these are nice clothes and he doesn't want to unravel something accidentally. Hungary is thinking of war again, Poland is sure of it. But her king has lost his taste for fighting the Ottomans, and the matter of Bohemia is drawing to a close. What's left? Austria? Somewhere down below, a bell begins to ring out the announcement of noon. Fifteen years, now, and the Pope has yet to rescind that order; they will be celebrating Hunyadi's victory, he thinks, until Hunyadi is long forgotten. And what of Hunyadi's son? Why has Hungary's king let it go?
Politics, of course, but still it makes him itch. He comes up behind Hungary, careful that his feet fall heavy on the floor, and rests a hand on her shoulder. "Are you still mad at me?"
"Because Bohemia's king left his crown to your king's son? That's Bohemia's folly, not yours." She half-shrugs, with the left shoulder, the one he is not touching. "No. I can find other ambitions, for the moment."
She is aching for a battle. Just as well. Poland thinks of the letters Janus has been sending him, and smiles. He lets his fingers slide under her collar and stroke her neck, gently, butterfly-soft, glad beyond reckoning that she changed out of her armour. She is divided about something, but not too divided; she is never too divided for long. She is strong, and brave, and he is glad to be so close to her. They could do great things together, he thinks. He brushes aside the soft sweep of her hair, and drops a kiss against the joint of her neck and shoulder. Far below then Prague bustles on; if anyone has paid heed to the question of kingship - which they certainly have, he knows - it cannot be seen from so high. The sun pours over the city, the castle and the red-roofed houses and the churches, and enough pours in the casement where they rest that it warms them, just a little. Poland wishes, with the desperation of someone for whom prayers are only a recital, that all will go as planned.
He misses Liet, off in the cold north, making the best of things, trying to make an alliance with Novgorod because they must stand together, or they will all fall. He has heard dark tales of Moscow. He suppresses the shiver, and whispers to Hungary how glad he is to be her friend.
--
[November, anno domini 1471, somewhere outside Nitra]
He's somewhere nearby. She can feel it. Somewhere in the forest, and if she looks, she will find him; their kind are drawn to each other. So Hungary climbs onto her big white horse, and rides out. No one remarks on her leaving; even if not all the Black Army are her people, they still know better than to get in her way.
The white snow glitters and the grey sky gleams with the hidden sun, and bare trees arch bleak against the sky. There are tantalizing hints of patterns in their tangle, and the shadows they cast across the forest floor. Her breath clouds the air. So does her horse's. The gentle thud of hooves through the snow is the only noise.
She hears something, looks up, and there is a vast dark crow flapping down beside her. Hungary yanks on the reins and her horse rears back. The crow calls out something that might be a laugh, and glides ahead of her. She follows; following crows cannot be a bad plan, not when she is looking for a fight. They have taken to calling her king Corvinus, and not Hunyadi any longer, for the crow on his family crest. They tell stories of miracles, too.
The people like him. Any strong king is ascribed miracles, Janus said to her, and told her stories of Charlemagne and Arthur Pendragon.
If she ever sees Janus again she's going to punch him.
The wind picks up and she rides on, as fast as she can travel safely; she would not want her horse to be hurt. There are no leaves for it to whistle through, except the tiny leaves of mistletoe nestled in the dead branches arching up to the sky. Poland is close; she can sense his presence, dimly glowing through the trees. Why he left the safety of Nitra she doesn't know, but perhaps his reasons were the same as hers, and the confrontation is inevitable. His king thought she would switch sides. Maybe he still harbours delusions, thinks he can convince her to come aid him. He will not. She loves her king. The crow turns west, screeching over the wind, and she follows. There are more of them now, gathering like stormclouds in the winter air, some of them so close together their shapes might as well be one. But she does not have time to watch them, not really, because Poland is so close she can taste it on the air. He feels like a field in autumn, ready for the harvest, even in winter.
Her sword is out and she is galloping before she sees him. He rides a sorrel mare, as big as her white stallion, a spot of harsh colour in the washed-out world. His sword is out as well, but he isn't holding it quite correctly. He must not believe that she means to harm him. The trees are close enough that there is hardly room to maneuver; she dodges a sapling, and he is still not moving, although his horse rears up in place, hooves pounding in the snow. She cannot make out his expression. Their swords ring on each other, and then she is past and wheels around, and then the crows are descending, a mass of black feather. Poland screams, and drops the reins to fend them off; his horse rears up again and he almost slides off, but grabs her mane in time. Hungary takes careful aim, and the birds part just in time, and she digs her heels in. The blow is straight and true.
At the last second she twists her sword to sweep him down with the flat.
when the moment of noise and confusion is over, she takes stock. Poland lies between the roots of a tree, and six crows have perched in its branches, congratulating themselves aloud. His eyes are unfocused, and his sword is gone; it lies in the snow, an arm's length away. His horse is stamping her feet, some distance away. And Hungary is still on her horse, still holding her sword.
She does not draw out the process, but neither does she hurry as she dismounts, pads over to him, and presses the tip of her sword beneath his chin. That draws his focus. She can see the way his pale throat moves as he swallows. "Mag - "
"You thought you could just ride in and take over?"
"I thought you liked Casimir!" He plants a hand on the ground, as if bracing himself to rise, but he will not rise with her sword there. "He's a good kid. He'd make a good king. And he wouldn't drag you off to try and conquer Bohemia and waste your time dicking around with the Holy Roman Empire when the Ottoman Empire is still making noise about invading you. Come on, Mag - Janus said the people would love it. He said he had the support of half your court."
"Had." Her lips draw back, in something that's almost a smile. "My king found out. He talked to some people. Made them see reason. And you're going to see reason too."
Poland isn't really smiling, but he seems more annoyed than afraid. She'll have to fix that. This is a little enough thing, really; he has slain no citizens, sacked no towns, done nothing but advance his army and occupy a city whose gates were thrown open to him. So she will not destroy him, only send him whimpering home with his ragged little army.
"Come on, this isn't - you - " He swallows again, fists clenching convulsively. "You wouldn't really hurt me."
"I might," she taunts, and forces his chin up a little. The point digs in just enough to let a lone drop of blood escape, as if he had cut himself shaving. As if he were old enough to need to. His breathing is heavy and ragged. "Your sweetheart's not here to save you this time. Where is he, anyway? Still off making time with Novgorod?"
That - that shouldn't be the thing that makes him go pale, even flushed as he is with cold and exertion. He lies still, a red splotch against the snow, fading further in with every breath. "You havn't heard?"
"Heard what?" He doesn't answer right away. She pulls her sword back a few inches, to give him room to breathe. "Poland? What's the matter?"
"Novgorod's dead."
--
The crows don't follow them back to camp.
There are protests when she brings someone who's obviously a Polish officer into the camp, but she snaps that he is there for parley, and no one has the nerve to ask for his sword. In her tent Poland collapses on her bedroll.
"You'll go back to Krakow," she says, and starts unbuckling her sword. "Forget this invasion. I don't care what Janus told you, I like my king."
"Even if he makes you fight Bohemia when you should be off battling the infidel?" Poland throws an arm over his eyes.
"Is that how they talked Casimir into it?" He doesn't bother to answer. She has to know that, she met Casimir, and Casimir believes in the way that only humans can, humans with their fifty or sixty years and the promise of heaven at the end of it all. It hurts him to think about, how Casimir had smiled, how he had promised to do Hungary proud, to drive back the Ottomans, to rule with mercy and charity, to do it all for the glory of God. What has God ever done for them? "He's a nice kid. Should have known better, though."
"Look - I can't just turn around and go home for no reason."
"Then we'll harass your army a bit first. Nobody gets killed. And if you leave by January, we'll offer a peace agreement."
She sounds perfectly confident. She always does. Hungary has this annoying habit of acting like she runs the world - isn't that Austria's thing? - but at least she does it gloriously. He can stand to go with someone else's plan right now. His is pretty much a loss. If they can go home without looking any more stupid, that's good enough. He has enough to worry about, or at least Liet does and that's the same thing, now. The Ordenstaat's been no more annoying than usual. Bohemia might as well be his vassal now. That leaves Moscow. He shivers whenever he thinks of it. Moscow is bold, and hard-edged, the way a nation gets when they live under a cruel foreign master. And he slew his brother. He must have, for Novgorod has vanished, and only the battle with Moscow could have slain him. If Moscow decides to head west and take his sisters back -
Hungary crouches beside the bedroll and peels Poland's hand away from his eyes. He blinks up at her, wanting very badly, suddenly, to be home.
"Hey, Polska," she says. "Do you still want to live forever?"
"Of course."
He doesn't know why she's asking. The answer seems to satisfy her, though. She sits back and folds her arms. "Will you stay here tonight? It's getting dark. Go back in the morning. They must know the invasion is a failure by now. Tell them we'll give them easy peace terms. My king has no taste for vengeance."
Poland takes deep breaths. Her tent is small and heavy with snow and warm, so warm he can feel it in his bones. Hungary is watching him, with something akin to shadows in her eyes. "I'll stay," he says.
--
[long before]
She wipes her eyes, and very firmly does not cry in front of her people. Her people, now, because her father is dead.
Her father's horse, big and white and spirited, bows his head, as if to join in their grief. She wraps her arms around the horse's neck while she considers. If their king had died, they would bury him, with twenty-five arrows. But her father was greater than any king, and he left no body to bury. Her king waits in silence, and the silence fills the little ring of people, until it seems like a breath would break something, and she knows that if someone were to touch her, she would not be able to hold back her tears.
"A hundred and eight arrows," she tells them, doing her best to make her voice firm and commanding. "We will sacrifice my father's horse, and bury the horse in his place. With a hundred and eight arrows. One for every clan."
Her king bows his head. "A just tribute, for our nation," he says, and looks around, at the green fields stretching away, the mountains barely visible, faded with distance and shading blue into the sky. There are crows circling, somewhere high above. They'll come down for the sacrifice. They always do. "What does this mean? He led us to this land. He said it should be our home."
It is a beautiful place, and her father wandered halfway across the world to find it, and she has known no other. She wants to stay here, she thinks. Her people can spread out, and fill the plains. There must be neighbors. She'll find them, and maybe some of them will be friends, and if they aren't friendly, well, her people can deal with that too. They know how to fight, and how to conquer.
"It is," she says, and knows it for the truth as she says it. "This is my home. This is your country, and I am your nation now."
--
--
An attempt to annotate this properly would be as long as the fic, so I'll just note that my major sources were The Raven King: Matthias Corvinus And The Fate Of His Lost Library by Marcus Tanner, which is a fascinating book and well worth reading (also, as far as I can tell, the only book on the topic in English) and The Spirit of Hungary by Stephen Sisa, which is available online, albeit without the illustrations, if you're curious. I don't speak Hungarian, so my options for sources were somewhat limited. I hope that I've been accurate and respectful as regards historical personages, and apologize for any errors.
Although I tried to keep the fic historically accurate, I have filled in with imagination what I couldn't find sources for, and fudged details for the sake of the narrative. The Thirteen Year's War did not actually start until 1454, although it was pretty obvious that it was going to. George of Podiebrad's project to unite Europe is discussed extensively here - in French, which I am far from fluent in. At some point in 1468, Matthias did try to arrange a marriage with the King of Poland's daughter. I could not discover when in 1468 or which daughter, so I picked Hedwig because she was the oldest, and sent Janus Pannonius to arrange it because I wanted to give him the chance to leap into bed with talk to Poland. Although Janus Pannonius was deeply involved with the 1471 plot, I have entirely neglected the important roles played by his uncle Janos Vitez, Archbishop of Esztergom, and Osvald Thuz, Bishop of Zagreb. Finally, while the Novgorod Reupblic was dealt a crippling blow at the Battle of Shelon River, it retained nominal independence for a further seven years, until, in 1478, the city was sacked by Muscovite troops. In Hetalian terms, this means Poland is mistaken about his demise - but won't be for long.
Thank you for such a challenging and fun prompt. I could have written a novel on this, and hope to return to the time period in further fics!