Svatý Václav

Content warning: brief mention of death

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. The bite of the wind was making Dushan’s face numb, especially his nose. Eyes watering, the young page adjusted the strap of the wine skin on his shoulder and clutched the bundle of venison closer to his body. He must keep up with Duke Václav, whose long sure strides seemed not at all hampered by the deep snowdrifts on the ground. 

Glancing back, Dushan realized that the weather had changed for the worse very quickly; where before the moon had been shining brightly, it was now made invisible by flurries of snow. He could no longer see the lighted windows of the castle at all. The wind was whipping the wet snowflakes in circles so the very air was white. Yet the Duke of Bohemia walked on before him, undaunted by the growing blizzard. 

The page thought longingly of the great hall, where a fire was glowing on the hearth, and the banquet table was full. The whole castle had celebrated Christmas yesterday, and today being the Feast of Saint Stephen, the festivities were continuing. The Duke had been drawn to the window by the bright moonlight outside, and was admiring the pristine glow, when he called for Dushan. “That peasant gathering wood there—do you know him, Dushan?” 

“Yes, your grace; that is Samo the cripple.”

“And do you know where he lives?” 

“Yes. About a league from here, on the edge of the forest, by the fountain of Saint Agnes with his family.”

“If he is out on such a cold night as this searching for a few sticks, they must be badly off. Do I speak truly, Dushan?”

“Yes, your grace.”

The Duke turned his back to the window, and addressed the other servants. “Bring me meat, and wine, and pine logs.” And to Dushan he said, “You will help me to bear these things. We will go and see good Samo, and help him build a good fire and see him and his family dine on good food.” 

And now here he was, staggering after the Duke of Bohemia as the freezing wind tried to steal the breath from his mouth. “Your grace,” Dushan gasped out, teeth chattering. “Svatý Václav!” Václav the good. 

The Duke’s cloak whipped about, but Václav stood straight and tall, back unbowed by the heavy sack of wood he carried there. The calm in the howling storm. “What is it, Dushan?” 

“I can go no farther, your grace.” Oh, how he wanted to go with the good Duke on his mission of charity! But his feet were faltering. “Everything is so dark and cold…I must turn back.” 

The Duke stood a moment in silent thought, brows furrowed, head bowed. When he spoke, his voice was clear and strong in a way the page could not fathom. “Mark my footsteps, Dushan, and tread in them boldly.” Then the Duke turned and set out once more. 

Dushan struggled after, searching for the gray marks of the Duke’s footprints against the white world around him. Finding one, he placed his foot in it as told—and started. 

Through his boot, he felt a heat like a burning fire. Lifting his foot, the ground was visible. Dushan put his foot into the track again, and felt not hard frozen ground, as it should be on the night after Christ’s birth. The toe of his boot was digging into soft soil, as of a tilled field in summer sun. 

The page lifted his head and stared incredulously after the Duke of Bohemia, who strode ahead unheeding. Then he followed, step by step, footprint by footprint, and the heat in the earth spread all through his body and warmed even his frozen nose. The screaming of the whirling winds seemed to fade. 

Late that night, the Duke and his page returned to the castle, their sacks empty. All were surprised, to some degree, by the fact that they seemed not at all cold. On the contrary, they looked as warm and rosy-cheeked as if they had done nothing but stand before a roaring fire. Yet the blizzard raged on outside. 

* * * * * * * *

Dushan was following the Duke up the steps of the church on their way to Mass when it happened. The September day was chilly, though of course not as cold as that night of the Feast of Saint Stephen, when he and the Duke had taken meat and wine and wood to crippled Samo and his family. When they returned, the Duke had gone to bed, and all in the castle had listened to the page's tale with wide eyes and open mouths. Some had laughed, while others went away thoughtful. 

A flurry of motion and pattering footsteps drew him from his thoughts. Four men were rapidly approaching. It took Dushan a long moment to see that one had a lance leveled at Duke Václav. The Duke’s brother, Boleslav.

Frozen in shock, Dushan watched as the good Duke of Bohemia was stabbed and then run through on the steps of the church.

* * * * * * * *

And so Svatý Václav, Václav the Good, was killed by his younger brother Boleslav the Bad, assisted by three of Václav's own nobles, on September 28, 929. He was 22 years old. Václav’s name was later Latinized as Wenceslas. He was given the title of King posthumously by the Holy Roman Emperor Otto I. Václav remained a virgin throughout his life, and gave much to the poor, which is immortalized in the Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas."

Irked by Václav's submission to the German invaders, the Duke's nobles had goaded Boleslav to the act of fratricide. Boleslav gave himself the title Prince of Bohemia, rather than the title of Duke that his brother had used. Within the next year, Boleslav was frightened by reports of miracles at his brother’s tomb. He had Václav’s remains moved to Saint Vitus’s Cathedral, where they rest to this day.

In Wenceslas Square in Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, the western half of which is the region of Bohemia, there stands a statue of Good King Wenceslas mounted on a horse. Legend has it that if Bohemia is ever in great danger, the statue will come to life, and Svatý Václav will raise an army and defeat the enemies of Bohemia.

Good King Wenceslas looked out

On the Feast of Stephen

When the snow lay round about

Deep and crisp and even

Brightly shone the moon that night

Though the frost was cruel

When a poor man came in sight

Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me,

If thou knowst it, telling

Yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

Sire, he lives a good league hence,

Underneath the mountain

Right against the forest fence

By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh and bring me wine

Bring me pine logs hither

Thou and I shall see him dine

When we bear them thither.

Page and monarch, forth they went

Forth they went together

Through the rude winds wild lament

And the bitter weather

Sire, the night is darker now

And the wind blows stronger

Fails my heart, I know not how

I can go no longer.

Mark my footsteps, good my page

Tread thou in them boldly

Thou shall find the winters rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his masters step he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the Saint had printed

Therefore, Christian men, be sure

Wealth or rank possessing

Ye, who now will bless the poor

Shall yourselves find blessing.