CHAPTER TWENTY
“MADNESS”
Several days later, on the Feast of the Seven Brothers of Kybolla, the first full council meeting was held since the king’s return to Kórynthia. Princess Arizélla’s abdication was presented, read into the record, and accepted by the king. He added several choice remarks about the woman, grinning knowingly at the councilmen.
“The throne of Pommerelia being vacant,” he continued, “we hereby declare that the Princess Ezzölla, second daughter of Kazimir late Hereditary Prince of Pommerelia, has succeeded to the Crown of Pommerelia and County of Bolémia under the title Ezzölla i, effective this date. Gorázd, prepare the proclamation.”
The king’s face suddently flushed red when he recalled the humiliation visited upon him at the church.
“Further,” he continued, “we do declare the Princess Arizélla, late Queen of Pommerelia and Countess of Bolémia, as outlaw and renegade, she having fled our jurisdiction without our authorization, and banish her from our realm for life, under pain of death. Record this, Gorázd,” he ordered, pointing down at the register, and hitting it several times with his index finger. “Do it now.”
“Further,” he added, staring coldly across the table at the primate, “we hereby withdraw our recognition from Timotheos Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia, and declare him deposed from that office, effective immediately.”
“What?” came the reaction from around the room, for Timotheos had been a popular choice, both among the clergy and the councilmen.
“Father?” said Prince Arkády, but the king continued without interruption.
“...The Bishop Varlaám Njégosh, Secretary of the Holy Synod,” the king stated, “is nominated Locum Tenens. We would also not be at all displeased were he elected patriarch. Record this,” he sputtered, waving at Gorázd, who continued writing as fast as he could go.
“The Patriarch Timotheos having been dethroned, he is ordered to depart this council forthwith,” Kipriyán declared, glaring across at Timotheos.
“Guards, escort him from the room!” he yelled.
“I will leave on my own two feet, thank you,” Timotheos said, standing up. “Sire, although I respect your office, you may not interfere with mine, which came to me from God Himself. Until such time as I am restored to office, I declare you excommunicated, and I order the Holy Synod to proclaim my decree, publish it throughout Kórynthia, and enforce it to the letter. You shall not take the sacraments or attend mass in this kingdom until you relent. You are condemned to everlasting Hell until you seek repentance. No man, not even the king, is above God.”
King Kipriyán sputtered and jumped to his feet, almost pulling his sword. He stopped himself with his weapon halfway out of its scabbard. Then he pointed at the patriarch.
“Arrest that man,” he ordered the guards, “and throw him in the ‘Hole.’ He will be bound over for trial one week hence.”
When they hesitated, he screamed, “Do it!”
Before the soldiers could grab him, Patriarch Timotheos smiled serenely and said: “He who touches me is excommunicated. I place the Kingdom of Kórynthia under interdict. No masses shall be said, no sacraments given, no weddings held, no dead buried, until I am released, and until the king humbles himself before God. I forbid any of the clergy to continue in your service. He who raises his hand against the patriarch, raises it against the Church; he who raises it against the Church, raises it also against God.”
Then he turned to the two guards, and said: “I forgive you, my sons. Lead me to my prison cell, and I will gladly follow.”
His dignity intact, he meekly left the room, and was dutifully trailed by both the Archpriest Athanasios and the Bishop Varlaám.
“Stop them!” ordered the king, but no one moved to obey.
He looked wildly around the room.
“What is the matter with all of you!” Kipriyán raved. “Are you all possessed by the Dark-Haired Man?”
“Sire,” said Prince Arkády, “there is no Dark-Haired Man.”
“Oh, I see,” the king sneered, “now that you’ve tasted some of my power, you want it all. Well, my boy, we’ll see about that.”
He turned to the grand vizier.
“I order Prince Arkády and his children removed from the register of succession,” he stated, very calm now. “List them all, one by one. I hereby declare my second son, Prince Nikolaí, the new Hereditary Prince of Kórynthia.”
Lord Gorázd looked very strangely at his king.
“But, sire,” he said, “Prince Nikolaí is dead. He perished at Killingford.”
“Killingford?” Kipriyán responded, “I forbid the use of that name. It bespeaks an attitude of defeatism. The proper name is the Schilling-Ford, and it was a great victory for Kórynthia. Have I not said so? Kipriyán the Conqueror does not lose battles, and he does not lie. Ever. Record it!” he yelled at Gorázd, pounding the table.
“Record it or be damned,” he added in a softer, even more sinister voice.
“It is so recorded, majesty,” Gorázd emphasized.
“Very well. Nikolaí, what is our military status?” he inquired.
“Uh, Prince Nikolaí is regretably absent, sire,” Lord Gorázd noted.
“Then, uh, Kiríll, tell me what I need to know!” the king blurted out.
“Yes, sire,” Prince Kiríll said carefully, rising from his seat, and glancing at his older brothers.
Arkády inclined his head ever so slightly.
“As you’ve heard,” Kiríll continued, “Prince Walther has apparently become King of Pommerelia under somewhat mysterious circumstances. There are so many different rumors being circulated in Balíxira about the passing of old King Barnim that they are impossible to fathom.
“Secondly, we have evacuated all of our armies from Pommerelia except for the forces occupying the three fortresses of Lockenlöd, Karkára, and Borgösha....”
“What! On whose orders?” the king interrupted.
“Prince Arkády’s, sire,” his son replied. “You were, uh, somewhat incapacitated after the great battle....”
“I was not!” he shouted. “I was just fine. But you refused to listen to me. Sit down!” he added.
“Zakháry,” he continued, “what is our battle readiness?”
“Sire, the army has mostly gone home,” Prince Zakháry reported. “We still have a few thousand men in the citadels, as already reported, but the rest are....”
“Traitors! You’re all traitors and whiners,” the king said. “I can’t trust any of you anymore.”
Kipriyán turned to the army commander, who was present at this meeting both as a courtesy and also to provide additional information on matters military.
“General Lord Rónai,” Kipriyán ordered, “I want you to hold those castles at all costs.”
“Yes, sire,” the officer replied, saluting crisply.
“How soon can we call up the reserves?” Kipriyán inquired.
“Well, highness, I don’t know,” Rónai stated. “Perhaps a month or six weeks.”
“Order it done,” the king commanded. “I want to mount a second expedition as soon as possible. And get those damned Arrhénis back. We wouldn’t have had these problems in the first place if Sándor had been doing his job. In the meantime, I want to reoccupy the Valley of the Spargö as a staging area. Can you do that with the men we have available there?”
“Possibly,” the general responded. “Just barely. But we’d be subject to constant attacks by the irregulars.”
“Then kill them. Burn them out. For every attack on our troops, execute a hundred farmers. Are there any questions?” the king asked, glaring around at his councilors, who sat in absolute silence.
“We’ll reassemble here in a few days,” he added. “And then I want some answers from all of you.
“Finally,” Kipriyán noted, “I see that we’re short several councilors. Therefore, I do appoint General Lord Rónai, General Lord Reményi, and Doctor Melanthrix to the Royal Council, effective with our next session. This meeting is adjourned.”
The king stomped out of the room, clearly displeased with the entire proceeding.
Arkády remained in his chair, covering his face with his hands.
“Lord God,” he said to no one in particular, “what have we ever done to deserve this?”
The other councilors were equally stunned. They murmured back and forth to each other in barely audible tones as they slowly exited the room.
“Madness,” Arkády heard from several quarters. “He’s gone mad.”
The prince could only agree.