THE FATES OF Boleslav and Dragomíra had to wait until after the coronation, set for seven days hence. Přibislava returned, and so did her friend Ana. With all the preparations and the steady stream of visitors, my master paid no attention to the young lady with the long honey braids.
The coronation day began before dawn in the kitchens, as Cook and his helpers started to prepare a mountain of food. When I ran up to the castle wall to greet the morning, the roads were already full of people. It appeared nearly everyone in the land walked, rode a horse, or filled a wagon on the way to Praha to celebrate the crowning of the new duke.
On that day the great hall had a festive appearance. The banners of every tribe hung from the rafters. Local bards laid aside their rivalry for the day in order to fill the hall with music. Even Bora wore an embroidered apron over her dress and a new scarf on her head.
My master spent the morning at his altar in prayer. He neither ate nor spoke. He seemed at times to shake with fear, and exhibited a humility at odds with his triumphant show of force against Dragomíra the week before.
“Master,” I finally said, unable to keep from speaking to him, “the time approaches. Your people await you.”
He turned toward me, his face pale. “Forgive me, Poidevin. You are right. I should not keep the people waiting.” When he rose from his knees, he seemed taller. Perhaps, though, it was only that I saw him as even greater than before.
I helped Václav dress in a simple, white linen tunic and slippers. Buckling on his empty sword belt over the tunic, he laid a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Poidevin.”
“For what, my lord?”
“Your presence is a blessing to me.”
I felt my face become hot, so to hide my embarrassment and joy, I went down on one knee, grabbed his hand, and pressed it to my forehead.
“Most noble Václav,” I began, but my throat closed over the rest I had intended to say.
There was a knock at the door. Father Pavel opened it and entered quietly. The priest wore snow white robes and a gold crucifix. His hands trembled with excitement.
“If only my grandmother were alive to see this day,” Václav sighed.
“Rest assured, my son, our sainted Ludmila is watching with great joy.”
I saw a peace come over my master’s face, erasing his tension and distress, and I was glad for it.
Father Pavel held out his hand, and Václav crossed the room to take it, bending one knee, as I had just done.
“Pray for me, Father, that I might be a wise and godly ruler over my people.” His voice was husky with emotion.
I lowered my eyes while the priest prayed, partly in Slavonic and partly in Latin. When my master rose, I followed the two of them down the steps to the waiting crowds.
The procession wound down the hill to the gates of the city of Praha so Václav could lead the people back up to St. George’s Basilica. It occurred to me that Václav was like Saint George. He, too, had slain an evil dragon, the pagan rule that held our people hostage. My master looked the part of the saintly knight as he rode on a white stallion, followed by his retinue on foot. As he passed the crowds lining the narrow streets of Praha, the people waved and cheered. They fell in behind us, flowing like a great sea toward the church.
Upon arriving at St. George’s, Václav dismounted and entered. On the benches crowded the voyvodes from all of Bohemia, as well as Germanic nobles and those from other duchies to the north. Father Pavel and several other priests stood at the altar with a Germanic bishop wearing his jeweled cope and miter. One priest held a red fur-lined robe, another a golden scepter, a third the new crown on a satin pillow.
I squeezed in between two soldiers against the back wall and watched my master process up the aisle. His back was straight and proud, but not for himself. He had asked the priests to crown him so all Bohemia would know that their duke followed the Christian God.
There was silence in the crowded church when Václav reached the altar steps and stood facing the bishop and priests.
“Who is it that approaches the altar of the Lord?” Father Pavel called out in a clear voice, speaking not in Latin, but in the language of the Čechs.
“I am Václav, son of Vratislav, the son of Bořivoj, of the dynasty Přemyslid. I have come to claim the birthright of my family.”
Žito brought forward a wooden plow that once belonged to Přemysl himself. By choosing this item of his ancestor as part of the coronation regalia, Václav wanted to show that he intended to rule as a peaceful and humble servant.
My master knelt as the bishop began his litany in Latin. Václav was admonished to lead Bohemia in the fear of God. His head was anointed with oil, as the biblical kings David and Solomon of old had been anointed.
One of the priests draped the heavy robe across my master’s shoulders. Another placed the scepter in his hand. At last, the new crown was brought forward.
“Václav, son of Vratislav, son of Bořivoj, I give you this token of your supreme royalty.” As Father Pavel set the crown upon my master’s dark hair, a ray of sunlight struck the gold and jewels with a brilliant flash, almost as if God himself had given his approval.
“Rise, Václav, Duke of Bohemia and Prince of the Čechs.”
My master rose and slowly turned to face his people. Wearing the robe and crown, with the scepter cradled in his arm, he looked so regal that my heart could not contain my joy. I added my voice to the shouts of every person in the church. The sound reverberated in the vaulted ceiling and rose up to heaven:
“Václav! Václav!”