The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 20

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 20: The Coronation (2)

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A few days later, bells rang from every church in Prague.

Under a cloudless sky, their solemn peals seemed to echo throughout the city, from its lowest alleys to its tallest spires.

I stood in the shadowed cloister at the entrance of a vast stone building.

The heart of the Kingdom of Bohemia, where its soul rested.

A place where past kings slept and future kings were born.

St. Vitus Cathedral.

Beside me, I heard János swallow hard. Tension was written all over his face, which was unusual for him.

"Are you ready, my lord?"

I slowly nodded instead of answering. I was just as tense. My throat was so dry it felt as though sand had gathered inside it.

'A coronation without a pope or even a cardinal.'

It was unprecedented in history, yet it was becoming reality here in Prague.

Creeeak!

As the massive oak doors swung inward, the noise and light of the outside world were cut off. All that greeted him was cool silence and a sense of overwhelming space.

Dozens of enormous pillars rose toward the heavens, forming a vaulted ceiling. The stained-glass windows between them shattered the sunlight into countless fragments of color, creating an unreal beauty.

Yet even that radiant light could not fully drive away the deep darkness within the cathedral.

With one deep breath, I forced down the unease lodged deep in my chest. My footsteps were soundless and heavy on the soft carpet beneath my feet.

The cathedral was filled with Prague's nobles, city councilors, and guild masters. Their gazes flew toward me like blades, piercing my entire body.

Awe, jealousy, suspicion, and open hostility. Their mixed emotions made the air feel heavy.

One gaze in particular was especially murderous.

Leaning against a massive pillar in a corner with his arms folded stood the one-eyed general in worn leather armor, Jan Žižka.

From the moment I entered, he had not moved a muscle. His one remaining eye had done nothing but bore into me.

Like an old wolf sizing up its prey.

I did not avoid his gaze. Instead, I met it head-on and walked toward the altar.

With every step, the faces of the nobles lined up on either side passed before me.

Some bowed their heads reluctantly. Others could not bear to meet my eyes and looked away.

'Are they swearing loyalty to their king? Or are they simply kneeling before the cries from the square and the will of the people?'

Either way, I would have to embrace and rule even their suppressed anger. That was the burden of a king.

At last, I arrived before the altar.

Waiting for me was not a bishop in splendid vestments, but Jan Rokycana, dressed in plain linen robes.

Behind him, Hussite clergy stood quietly in formation, holding banners bearing the image of a chalice.

Doubt and wariness filled Rokycana's eyes, along with the resignation of someone who knew this great tide could not be turned back.

With a stiff expression, Rokycana began to recite a prayer. It was not solemn Latin, but rough yet powerful Czech.

The words were not a prayer asking God to bless a new king.

They were closer to the reading of a contract, an oath that imposed upon the new king the duty of defending the Four Articles of Prague and protecting Bohemia from heresy.

When the prayer ended, Rokycana lifted a small vial of holy oil.

"On behalf of the people of Bohemia, I anoint your forehead, your chest, and your hands. From this moment, may you be reborn not as a worldly ruler, but as a guardian of the chalice."

Cold oil ran down my forehead. There was nothing special about it. It was only olive oil.

But to those watching, it would seem like God's blessing.

I kept the devout, humble expression I had practiced countless times for this moment.

The attendants then brought out the symbols of kingship.

A golden orb and scepter.

"This orb represents the kingdom you will rule, and this scepter represents your just reign."

I took the orb in my left hand and the scepter in my right. They were heavier than I had expected, weighing down my arms.

This was the weight of power. The lives and deaths of tens of thousands, along with the fate of a nation, were contained within those cold lumps of metal.

Then came the final step. Two priests carefully carried forward a crown resting upon a silk cushion.

The Crown of Saint Wenceslas.

The most sacred symbol of the Kingdom of Bohemia, commissioned by the great Charles IV himself.

The crown of pure gold was studded with a sapphire said to be the largest in the world, along with rubies, emeralds, and pearls.

It shone more brilliantly than any jewel, but to me, it looked like nothing more than carefully worked metal and stones.

Its holiness came not from the materials themselves, but solely from the faith of those who looked upon it.

And from this moment on, I would have to use that faith.

Rokycana raised the crown with both hands.

Everyone in the cathedral held their breath.

A brief silence, as though time itself had stopped.

Then, at last, the crown was placed upon my head.

Clunk.

It was far heavier than I had expected. Not only physically.

Along with the cold touch of metal pressing against my temples, an enormous invisible weight pressed down upon my shoulders and heart.

'Is this the weight of a king?'

Rokycana asked solemnly.

"Ulrich von Sternberg, do you swear before God to protect the people of Bohemia and uphold the Four Articles of Prague?"

Without the slightest hesitation, I answered in the loudest and most resolute voice I could muster.

"I swear."

At those words, Rokycana stepped back and shouted for everyone in the cathedral to hear.

"Behold Bohemia's new king, Ulrich I!"

The moment he finished speaking, the cathedral's tightly closed front doors flew open.

Outside, tens of thousands of citizens filled the square, waiting for the doors to open. Their hopes and expectations rushed in like one enormous wave.

"Whooooooaaaaaah!!!"

As though shattering the frozen silence inside the cathedral, thunderous cheers poured in like a tidal wave. The roar was deafening.

"Our king!"

"Long live King Ulrich!"

I slowly turned to face the citizens reaching toward me, tears streaming down their faces.

There was no joy in me. All I could think was that this was the true beginning.

They had placed the crown upon my head.

Now I had to prove that I deserved to wear it.

* * *

The heat of the coronation had not yet faded when I stood alone in St. Wenceslas Chapel, the innermost sanctuary of St. Vitus Cathedral.

The air here, where the remains of Bohemia's past kings rested, was cool and heavy, unlike the world outside.

I placed the Crown of Saint Wenceslas, which had just rested on my head, onto a silk cushion on the altar.

That was when it happened.

Breaking the heavy silence, someone approached from beyond the chapel's arched entrance.

Thud. Thud.

The steady, heavy sound of military boots.

The one who emerged from the darkness was the one-eyed general, Jan Žižka.

His worn leather armor seemed steeped in the smell of blood that could never be washed away and cold iron.

"You summoned me, Your Majesty."

Žižka had used the title "Your Majesty," but there was not a trace of respect in it.

It was a dry voice, as though he were simply acknowledging the title the citizens in the square had given me.

He neither knelt nor bowed his head.

Like a massive boulder, he stood at the entrance and met my gaze as an equal.

"Get to the point. We both have places to be."

His attitude was clear. He had no time to indulge in this kind of political game.

I did not point out his rudeness. This was not the time.

"Where do you intend to go?"

Thankfully, my voice came out calmer than I expected. The voice of a king, practiced dozens of times.

"Where I belong."

A blunt answer. He was a thorough pragmatist who did not waste a single word on needless decoration. He must have meant he was returning to the battlefield.

But I could not let Jan Žižka leave like this.

I could coax or crush Prague's nobles if I had to, but the Taborites were different.

They were fanatics armed with faith, and their god was the chalice and Jan Žižka alone.

If I failed to win the old lion's heart, I would become a puppet king unable to take even one step beyond Prague's walls.

I put my cards on the table without hesitation.

"General. Take the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Kingdom of Bohemia."

Žižka's remaining eye narrowed. He stared at me for a while, then gave a short derisive laugh.

"Commander-in-Chief... A fancy title."

"It is a position suited to you, General."

"I don't need it."

It was a firm refusal, as clean as a blade cutting through a radish. Just as I expected.

Žižka tapped the worn sword hilt at his waist and continued.

"My soldiers don't follow me because I am a general. They follow me because I am Jan Žižka. Giving me a title won't change their loyalty, nor will it make my sword any sharper."

Žižka took a step into the chapel. The pressure of an old beast of prey filled the space.

"And I still don't trust you."

His voice hardened like stone.

"The citizens of Prague may have been fooled by that smooth tongue and glittering lineage of yours, but if you think you can move the army of our Lord with your silver tongue, you should give up now. We fight by the words of Scripture, not the words of nobles."

"..."

Damn it.

My heart began pounding as though it would break through my ribs. My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt stuck to the roof of it.

This pressure. It could not have been any worse even if I were facing tens of thousands of soldiers on a battlefield.

But I could not show it. If his presence overwhelmed me here, I would never be able to bring the Taborites under my control.

I forced myself to act composed, putting on an even thicker mask, then slowly shook my head.

"This offer is not for my sake, General. It is for you and your soldiers."

"What do you mean?"

"Sigismund will come. With an army far greater than before."

I stepped toward Žižka. There was now less than an arm's length between us.

His scarred face and the one eye burning within it were close enough to touch.

"Bohemia is divided between Catholics and Hussites, and the Hussites are divided again between Utraquists and radicals, growling at one another. Now we will split once more between those who recognize the king and those who reject him. The enemy is right before us, yet we are pointing our blades at each other. What could be more insane than this?"

Žižka remained silent. Yet his tightly pressed lips and the old scars on his cheek twitched ever so slightly.

Proof that I was not wrong. He must have been sick of this divided state of affairs as well.

I pressed further, touching the deepest source of his discontent.

"I have no intention of taking your soldiers or interfering with your methods. I intend to give you wings. In the king's name, I will appoint you the sole Commander-in-Chief."

"..."

"Then even those arrogant nobles in Prague will not dare question your operations on the battlefield, and the entire chain of command will be united around you. Isn't that how wars are won?"

This was not an empty title. I was offering him the legitimacy to command Bohemia's entire army.

Žižka was silent for a long time. His one eye was no longer trying to see through me.

Instead, his gaze sank deeper as he coolly weighed the value and practical benefits of my offer.

After a long while, he spoke.

"Why give me such power?"

His voice was still full of suspicion. Naturally. Nothing in this world was free.

"Your Majesty should be wary of me. I am a man who could cut off your head. If I wanted, I could turn my army around at any time and turn Prague into a sea of fire."

"You would, if you judged me unworthy of being king."

I did not avoid his eyes.

"But you won't. You love Bohemia more than I do. You are not the kind of man who would feed this country to Sigismund's jaws for the sake of personal ambition."

"..."

"I trust your loyalty. Not loyalty to me, but loyalty to this land and its people, and to the faith you hold as dearly as your life."

There was not the slightest falsehood or artifice in my voice.

This was not calculated acting. It was my sincere conviction about the man known as Jan Žižka.

"I wear the crown, but I know nothing of war. You are the finest soldier, but you lack legitimacy. We need each other, General. Your sword and my mind."

My final words echoed through the empty chapel.

It was neither a plea nor a request.

It was a brutally cold assessment of reality, an irresistible bargain that precisely addressed what each of us needed.

I held my breath and waited to see what choice the old lion would make.

How much time passed? At last, Žižka spoke in a heavy voice.

"...Fine."

That one word. The moment that short, blunt answer struck my ears, the enormous pressure weighing on my whole body vanished as though it had never existed.

He ran one large, rough hand over his beard.

"You are right about one thing. Sigismund is coming, and Bohemia is biting at its own belly like a wounded beast. The fools in Prague think justification and legitimacy will stop the crusaders, but that is a delusion. Only steel and faith can stop them."

Žižka looked straight at me.

There was no hostility or contempt in his eyes now. They were the eyes of a cold, practical partner evaluating another.

"I accept the post of Commander-in-Chief. But let us be clear. Not for Your Majesty, but because I no longer wish to watch nobles who boast of their bloodlines lecture me on my operations in the field."

Žižka took one final step forward. A suffocating killing intent washed over me.

"But remember this. I am loyal not to your crown, but to the Four Articles of Prague. Send me everything needed for war, soldiers, cannon, and money. I will use them to crush Sigismund. But the moment you stray even one step from that path..."

Žižka's remaining eye flashed ominously.

"I will face you not as your commander, but as your judge."

After finishing his final words, he gave a slight nod. Whether it was the minimum courtesy owed to a king or simply a habit, I could not tell.

Then he turned without hesitation and left the chapel, his heavy military boots echoing just as they had when he entered.

Thud. Thud.

Boom.

The massive door closed, ending the audience.

Žižka had not sworn loyalty. He had only accepted the terms I offered.

A partial, dangerous, conditional victory.

...Even so, a victory was still a victory.

Jan Žižka had joined forces with me. This was the best result I could have hoped for.

As I released the breath I had been holding, all the tension left my body and my legs went limp like jelly.