Poison and Perfidy: A Case for Brother Daniel

By Sergei Chechnev

900 years ago a village to the east of the tiny hamlet of Moscow challenged the supremacy of the ancient and majestic Kiev, thus beginning a strife that would endure for centuries. Perfidy and Poison: A Case for Brother Daniel is set amidst the roots of that epic power struggle in turmoil-ridden 12th Century Russia. Based on historic fact, this fast-paced medieval murder mystery pits Brother Daniel against all the odds and some powerful enemies, both regal and religious, trying to uncover the truth behind the death of the Grand Prince of Kiev, a puppet appointment that infuriated southern princes who stood to lose precious lands in the north and so divide the nation. As he stumbles closer to the real assassins in a tangled skein of suspicions, Daniel is hounded by treachery and treason lurking around every dark corner created by the country’s elite ruling classes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reid Publishing
• Release date: Jan 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9780992681111

Book preview

Prologue

Kiev

March 8, 1169

Now the brother shall betray the brother to death,

and the father the son;

and children shall rise up against their parents

and shall cause them to be put to death.

(The Gospel according to Saint Mark,

Chapter 13, Verse 12).

HE wasn’t a saint, so he couldn’t be expected to act like one.

Magnanimity was foolish.

Forgiveness was a sin.

Standing in the open alcove on the top floor of the Rotonda Palace, Prince Gleb had a perfect view of the burning city. Amidst fire and wreckage, Kiev still looked majestic, spellbinding. It occurred to Gleb that perhaps true beauty could only be appreciated in times of agony, when death and destruction were nigh at hand and all fetters of mundane habit were severed. He had plunged Kiev into agony, and, with uncanny admiration, he watched it shed its panoply in front of him, stubbornly, unwillingly, but unavoidably. And he admired his new possession. He watched the flames stick out their tongues to the gilded roof of the stalwart Grand Palace opposite him, and every time the delicate gilt blistered and hissed under the heat, his heart missed a beat in triumph. This was his palace now. For he was Kiev’s new lord. The Grand Prince of Russia. He kept repeating this to himself over and over again.

Yet still his heart ached.

He had told himself that all the pain, uneasiness and agitation of the past three days would ebb as soon as he saw the mother of all Russian towns lie beneath his feet. But now an irking thought gnawed at his mind: had this dream of his entire life been worth dreaming?

Out there in the distance, he spotted St. Sophia—the Great Cathedral—that towered above the city like a white candle, enveloped in flames that licked at her sides as if trying to cajole her into abandoning her defying ways and succumbing to the obvious power that was about to consume her. As Gleb watched, a grunt of satisfaction escaped his lips. You think yourself special? You think yourself strong? Then think again. For today is my day. And today I am the lord of all here. Yet, she just stood there, silent, proud, bowing to no one but God, snow-white in spite of all the soot that besmeared her. And she sang her song, a song of unrivalled beauty, unconquered pride, untarnished soul. The song pierced the noise and hum of the city and seemed to be reaching out to the farthest corners of Russia, the Great Bell wailing a monotonous low note with a handful of smaller bells gracing it with high-pitched cries of mourning.

Gleb could bear the bells no longer. Their sound gutted his soul, drove him mad, made his ears pop. This was Kiev’s revenge. The city which he had finally seized after three days of battle, the city which he pillaged and ransacked, the city which he had set on fire, refused to accept its doom. His troops were everywhere, robbing the churches and houses, killing anyone who was crazy enough to try and oppose them, raping women, beating children. There was no one left to stand up for this ancient capital of Russia. Its defenders together with Grand Prince Mstislav had fled. And yet, though fully in his power, Kiev wasn’t his. The Mother of God Herself opposed him now, hailing his imminent undoing with the bells of St. Sophia.

Gleb clenched his fists and teeth and exhaled forcefully. His temples pulsed. His head was about to burst with the noise that hummed in it louder and louder. Fresh rage resurged. And he began to pace. Was it his doom to be defeated even in victory? Was the cause to which he had given all, for which he had committed the gravest sins of perfidy- oath-breaking, treachery and fratricide -never to give him the comfort and joy he had known since childhood?

With a swift motion of his arms, Gleb stamped both fists on the cold stone balustrade and cast a final glance at the city from beneath his eyebrows. Nothing, nothing in the whole world would stop him now. This city had killed his father, defied his brother, but it would not hold out against him. It will burn until it comes crawling to me on its knees, begging for quarter!

His resolution was final. He must face the enemy. And woe betide a prince whose heart should quaver!

As Gleb turned around, he realized that he was no longer alone in the small chamber. In the doorway he saw his little brother Prince Vsevolod.

I am sorry, I did not mean to… began Vsevolod, as if sensing the imminent rebuke for the intrusion.

You could have knocked, snapped Gleb, giving his brother a stern glance, unable to contain his rage, his frustration. What is it?

He loved Vsevolod - he knew he mustn’t be hard on him - but he thought that the boy needed his measure of pain and disappointment too. This was Vsevolod’s first campaign. Premature maybe, for the boy was only thirteen, but Gleb had agreed with their elder brother, the Prince of Suzdal, that it would be a good start. Kiev didn’t have a chance. The opposing army was formidable, conscripted from eleven principalities, commanded by outstanding captains - a mighty host compared only to the warfare of Monomachos - so the timing was perfect to introduce Vsevolod to his future life as a prince. Wars were waged to win, and victory was sweet. Or should be. His little brother would remember this moment now till the end of his days.

Still, there was perplexity in Vsevolod’s brown eyes. He should have been taken aback by Gleb’s change of mood, and Gleb was pleased to see someone else’s high spirits sour. But the thrill of the moment must have taken the better of the little prince, and he pulled himself together to answer.

The chase, Vsevolod said, his voice apologetic but assured. They have returned empty-handed.

Gleb’s heart sank and he felt a nasty chill in his bosom. Bastards! I told them they would hang if they failed to deliver Prince Mstislav. What does Borislav say?

He says Mstislav must have slipped through the gap in our ranks and headed for Vasilev. He is beyond our reach now. Vsevolod’s voice was calm and low.

The gap?! I had this damn city surrounded with three lines of troops! And Borislav talks of gaps! Gleb felt himself going mad. His victory was rendered even more impotent with the escape of the former Grand Prince. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing had a meaning. I want Borislav up here. Now! he shouted and shot out his arm, pointing to the door.

Wait, brother, Vsevolod said gently. The princes and the clergy have assembled to hail you as the new Grand Prince. They are expecting you in the Great Hall.

They are! Gleb cried sarcastically. Who would have thought? With Mstislav out there on the loose, this will be the most rewarding experience of my whole life! I am to believe the Rostislaviches have already drafted the Charter for my enthronement?

Gleb paused and stared at Vsevolod.

Yes, they have, Vsevolod said, his eyes bearing a silent question of how the news of enthronement could be disappointing to anyone.

I wonder what they will demand of me in the Charter? Gleb continued in the same mocking tone.

I do not know, Vsevolod said. For the first time during their conversation he sounded like a little child rebuked for misbehaving. But I heard them mention some favours you and brother Andrew promised them.

Gleb’s lips parted in a wide, malicious grin.

Favours, favours, everyone is after favours, he intoned monotonously. Nobody cares about serving me. Nobody bothers to remember the escape of Prince Mstislav. Yet, when it comes to favours, the Rostislaviches are there to state their demands!

This time Vsevolod did not reply. He must finally have realized that Gleb wasn’t talking to him at all.

He looked at his little brother with unseeing eyes. His rage was slowly transforming into its most vicious, quiet form. The summit of victory turned out to be a slippery slope, and once he was aware that he was already on the way down, he knew he’d have to start all over again. Like a snake, he’d lie low and pretend to be asleep, watching his prey, preparing to sting, saving up the venom for the deadly attack.

As Vsevolod’s face came into focus, Gleb beckoned him to the door.

They want to hail me as the Grand Prince and they want me to sign the Charter. That is what we are here for, are we not? Let us go and grant them their favours.

Vsevolod stayed put.

Go ahead, what are you waiting for?

Gleb gestured towards the door with both his arms, and Vsevolod finally moved, fixing a bewildered gaze on his elder brother. Gleb followed, and, as he was past the door and about to close it, he became aware of the bells of St. Sophia once again.

Brother, he called after Vsevolod. The young boy turned. Gleb grinned. In as sweet a voice as he could muster, he said. Send men to the belfry at St. Sophia and tell them to cut down all the bells. Oh, and whoever has been ringing them, I want them hanged and quartered in the main square!

Chapter One

Murom

The Saviour Transfiguration Monastery

January 28, 1171

I know thy works, and thy labour, and thy patience,

and how thou canst not bear them which are evil.

And hast borne, and hast patience, and for my

name's sake hast laboured, and hast not fainted.

Nevertheless I have somewhat against thee,

because thou hast left thy first love.

(The Revelation of Saint John the Divine,

Chapter 2, Verses 2-5).

PEACE. The only place where peace wasn’t just a dream. In the comfort of his cell, Daniel enjoyed being an observer of life beyond monastery walls. It gave meaning to otherwise meaningless things. In the five years since his tonsure it was his anchor in a sea of troubles.

He refreshed his quill in the inkstand, pausing over the letter. While his hands were busy, his mind was free to ponder. He could spend weeks at the courts of Murom and Suzdal, could travel to Constantinople, could counsel princes and take their confessions, yet the tumults that besieged them would never stir unrest in his soul, for he knew that sooner or later he’d be back in his safe haven, the still waters of Saviour Transfiguration.

He had grown used to this life. It had only been hard the first few months after the tonsure. While his mind fought his last battle with his warrior’s heart. Until one day the mind prevailed. Sword is not the only weapon. You are still a fighter, remember. But now that you are in God’s army, you have the power of the Word. Preach peace, and your enemies shall fall.

His glance fell on the letter, and he quickly finished it.

I therefore beg on you, my lord, to remember in your heart that no grudge is worth shedding God’s servants’ blood for, and to remember as well the times of your hardships when Grand Prince Andrew stood by you and did not waiver. Whatever your grudges against him, let the love of Jesus guide you. Whatever your fears, nothing but prayer and repentance will allay them. Whatever the wrongs done you, let the words of love right them.

Love and blessing to you from the humblest servant of your Princely Grace.

† Daniel

Brother Daniel sprinkled sawdust on the parchment and whisked it off onto the floor. For all the letters he had written in his twenty-three years, these last manipulations had become mechanical: cutting a hole at the bottom, inserting the string, rolling the parchment, tying the string around it, melting some wax on the candle, pouring it onto the string, applying his signet, and putting the letter aside for the wax to dry.

As he waited, he sat in silent contemplation. He could be a boyar by now. His noble birth was a guarantee of this high station. He could be in Vladimir, by the Grand Prince’s side. But did he really wish it so much now, after five years in Murom? What says the Monastery Code: the pursuits of this world are a burden, so they who strive for a tonsure attain a better life. His tonsure was Heaven-sent, a sign from the Lord. It was his vocation indeed, and there was nothing he missed in the world outside.

Daniel glanced up at the mica window covered with a web of frost that allowed only a small clearing in the middle to illuminate his space. Even so, the morning was sunny, immersing his small cell with light. It streamed inside forming a bright path filled with tiny speckles of dust - warm, merry, reassuring. He liked mornings, and he liked the sun. He always wished that morning bliss could last forever. Especially when it was cold outside.

He sighed. There remained one thing he couldn’t enjoy even in the monastery. Indolence.

Every morning was a reminder of his multiple duties. As a hieromonk - a monk-priest - he would have to officiate the matins. As a master of scribes he would have to check the last day’s work. As the confessor of the Prince of Murom he would have to remember to get Father Hegoumen to dispatch the letter that he had just written. The prince had asked for advice. One of his villages had been forfeited by his neighbour, Grand Prince Andrew of Suzdal, and he wanted to assemble a host and seize the village back. Yet another petty dispute, yet more time to spend settling it.

Daniel moved back his stool and stood up from the table. The day’s work was ahead of him and his heart was calm and tranquil again. There really was nothing he could miss in the outside world, he thought again. In a country torn apart by the discord of princes God’s word was the only comfort and God’s love the only hope.

As he reached for the letter, Daniel heard a knock on the door. Before he could answer it, he saw the door swing open with the usual screech, a reminder that he must have those hinges oiled.

He recognized Father Hegoumen’s cell boy, Akimka. The boy panted heavily; his cheeks were rosy and his zipun jacket was undone. Daniel wondered if this boy could ever learn to do anything without rushing. And he also wondered if Akimka would ever learn to view knocking on the door as a request for permission to enter rather than as a warning of his imminent arrival.

Daniel, Akimka said, struggling to catch his breath. Come, Father Hegoumen told me to fetch you at once.

Daniel worked unsuccessfully at repressing a faint smile. Still I see no reason why you could not walk all the way rather than, he pointed his hand at the boy’s dishevelled clothes, run.

But this is urgent.

Is it? Daniel raised his brows in feigned surprise. Akimka was a smart little fellow, but at fifteen he still couldn’t get rid of his childish habit of making a fuss on any suitable occasion, and on many an unsuitable one. Neither did he bother to address Daniel as Father. But with Akimka, this was hardly an insult. All right. Did Father Athanasius say what this was about? he stepped over to the chest to pick up his winter coat - a long fur-trimmed garment made of coarse wool - and his kamilavkion headdress.

Does Father Athanasius ever say anything to anyone? Akimka parried with a note of hurt feelings in his voice. Daniel saw Akimka lean back against the door jamb and stare at him. Silently, Daniel put on the coat, fixed the kamilavkion upon his head, and straightened its long folds down the length of his back. He picked up the letter from the table, fitted it into the inside pocket of his cassock and turned around to Akimka.

The boy’s eyes shone with a silent request. He knew Akimka wanted to be pressed for explanations, and it amused Daniel even more.

Are we going? he said calmly.

Yes, Akimka replied with a desperate nod of his head. He swivelled around on his heels and tripped into the corridor.

As Daniel closed the screeching door behind him, he wondered how long Akimka could brave this ignorance of what he must have thought was exciting news.

Outside, the corridor was dim and dank. The torches set at each of the ten cell doors on their left barely burned for all the moist permeating the cold ancient stones of the arched passage, and the solid wall on their right made it look like a tomb. The living dead. The thought shot through Daniel’s mind. That’s what they call us monks, and that’s what we are. He shuddered. For the first time in his residence here he felt eerie in this familiar passage. He’d walked along it a thousand times, out his own cell at the dead end, past the other cells, down the flight of stairs leading directly from the dormitory’s first floor to the entrance door on the ground floor, and every time the business at hand was his sole care, the self-inflicted misery of a monk’s existence only too natural a thing to trouble the mind. The pause was brief. He had to be going. He hated the chill in his bosom. He must pull himself together.

Halfway down the corridor, Akimka could resist no longer the temptation to reveal all. A messenger from Vladimir came here this morning, he said.

And?

Do you not see? Because Akimka’s head was turned Daniel’s way, his resulting sideways gait precluded him from watching where he was going. A messenger from Vladimir brought some news from the Grand Prince, and now Father Hegoumen wants to see you!

A messenger from Vladimir? Daniel felt a pang of apprehension and stopped in the corridor. This could have nothing to do with the summons. But if it did…

Watch your step! Daniel shouted. The boy was about to trip on the stairs of the narrow passage to the ground floor. Akimka turned away and the two of them reached the front door in silence.

Outside, the monastery grounds were buried under a thick carpet of snow. The sun danced graciously on the white drifts and they glittered like heaps of gemstones strewn at random. A gust of wind made Daniel shiver. Ahead of him, Akimka wrapped the folds of his jacket tighter around himself.

A narrow path led directly to Father Hegoumen’s lodgings. Prudently, Akimka quickened his pace. Daniel was glad the boy didn’t try to resume the conversation. He listened to the crunching of snow under their feet and told himself to keep calm until they reached the entrance.

Inside, the ante-chamber was warm and bright. The small corridor had six large windows, and the torches set in sconces along the walls were all burning.

Daniel rubbed his hands and reached out to one of the torches. The hot flame sent a wave of heat through his sinews.

I wonder, he heard Akimka speak up behind his back. what this is all about?

Daniel didn’t reply.

I have never seen Father Athanasius in such a grave mood before, Akimka spoke again.

Daniel stepped away from the torch and, as he took off his coat, he looked back at Akimka. Is he alone? he asked, pointing his head at the door of Father Hegoumen’s cell further down the corridor.

Yes, Akimka nodded. I took the messenger to the refectory.

Daniel handed the coat over to Akimka. His fingers were unwieldy. One of the things he hated most in this world was the unknown. Coupled with Akimka’s childish excitement, it gave him the inexplicable feeling of tension. He suppressed a bout of panting and took a deep breath.

As he turned, he warded off Akimka’s attempt to follow suit with a shake of his head. Leaving the boy behind, he approached the door and knocked. After a muffled ‘Come in’, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

He blinked in the dark, then, adjusting to it, he saw that the only window in the spacious room set in the wall opposite the door was tightly shuttered. A few lit candles flickered in front of the icons. The overall effect reminded Daniel of a hermit’s den. He stepped forward and paid homage to the icons in the corner: though he couldn’t see them properly, their location was uniform. Casting a strained glance about the dim interior, he found Hegoumen Athanasius standing in the right hand corner, by the iconostasis - several rows of icons arranged in a particular order, with Christ the Saviour in the middle, Mother of God on His right, and St. Nicholas on His left, a handful of saints and angels below. The old man laid a quick sign of the cross over himself and turned to face Daniel.

In the unsteady flickering light of the candles, his features looked unusually careworn and grave. Hegoumen Athanasius, a pious old monk, rarely smiled. He was a devoted follower of monastic rules. The brethren respected their Father Superior for his wisdom and love of God, and were accustomed to his detached, impervious demeanour. However, a mere glimpse of the old man’s face at this particular moment made Daniel’s heart beat with uneasiness. Some heavy thought burdened this mind, some unwonted agitation bent this brow, some unsavoury tidings Daniel felt he would be made privy to very soon.

He bowed his head in reverence. Father Athanasius made a sign of the cross over him and silently gestured towards the bench. Obediently, Daniel took a seat by the table. Father Hegoumen remained standing. He stroked his long grey beard before he finally spoke, breaking the tension. Grand Prince Andrew Georgievich wants you to join him in Bogolyubi.

Father Athanasius fell silent. He looked Daniel straight in the eye, and Daniel felt a tide of alarm overcoming him. His heartbeat quickened. For no particular reason, he felt there was more to what the old hegoumen was about to say, and he had never seen Father Athanasius struggle with words before. He had no right to speak without permission, so despite his thumping heart, he waited patiently.

His messenger arrived today. The Grand Prince wants his books delivered forthwith.

In the moment of silence that followed, Daniel listened to the sizzle of wax burning. Father Hegoumen felt his beard again allowing an impasse that demanded a response.

The books, Father, Daniel said softly and tentatively. But I shall not have them ready before Dormition.

Father Athanasius nodded his head several times. The Grand Prince says he wants you to deliver the books which you have already copied, even if that is only one book.

The old man paused, then reached out to a rolled parchment on the table. Here, he said. This is my reply to the Grand Prince. I tell him you are unwell and cannot come. You should stay in your cell for a few weeks. I made orders to deliver your meals.

Daniel felt his eyes dilate with surprise. Lying was a grave sin; defying a prince was condemned by the Gospel. Both of these offences were impossible to imagine of the Hegoumen Athanasius.

Daniel raised his shoulders slightly and couldn’t help a stutter. Fff-forgive me, Father. I do not understand… His mind was in a swirl. He meant every single bit of what he just said. He looked up at the old hegoumen expectantly.

Father Athanasius replied instantly. I do not like this summons, my son. I love you dearly. If anything bad should chance to you, the Lord will never forgive me for this.

Chance to me, Father? exclaimed Daniel, unable to get the better of his surprise. Whatever could possibly chance to me badly in Bogolyubi? Have I not delivered books to Grand Prince Andrew God knows how many times? Summoning me before Dormition is unusual, but from what you just said I gather you believe I could be… harmed…

Daniel followed Father Hegoumen intently, his every move, the stroke of his beard, his grave frown, and finally his approach to the bench and sit by his side.

Indeed I do, my son, Father Athanasius said.

But why?

Winter is a busy season, you know that only too well, the old hegoumen said slowly. Tributes must be collected, armour mended, boats caulked, sails sewn, swords forged. Autumn is a time of impassable roads. Summer is when our princes go to war. So whatever preparations are done, they must be done in winter, and even such a lover of book lore as Prince Andrew would never squander this season's scanty days on augmenting his library rather than his stocks and supplies.

After a pause, Father Athanasius continued, painfully, with effort. The books are just a pretext. Our prince has been at odds with Andrew of Suzdal. Andrew has already forfeited some of his lands, but instead of paying homage, the Prince of Murom has got it in his head that he can withstand Andrew by force.

Yes, but I have been counselling our prince differently, and I believe I shall succeed, Daniel said when the old hegoumen paused again. In fact, I wrote him a letter which I have brought with me and wanted you to dispatch…

Father Athanasius raised his hand, ordering Daniel to keep silent. You do not know yet, my son, he said in a weary tone. Three days ago Prince Andrew apprehended our prince’s envoys. They are kept in jail in Vladimir so far. But remember how Andrew dealt with his nephews five years ago? Power is slipping through his hands. In a time like this, his shrift shall be as short as can be. You are among those close to our prince. Depriving the Prince of Murom of your counsel and assistance can be an important gain for Andrew. That is why I am concerned about your safety. That is why I do not want you to go. That is why I am taking upon myself the grave sin of lying, for God sees the ultimate truth and will absolve me from a lesser sin in order to keep me from committing a graver one.

As Father Athanasius uttered those last words, the old hegoumen’s eyes moistened. Yet Daniel felt sudden relief. Once spoken, the unknown ceased to be menacing and his mind was now at work deliberating. Dear old man. Never had he expressed his affection in words. But what he had just said spoke louder than words. Daniel’s heart writhed with pity for the old hegoumen’s suffering.

You must not torment yourself with such gloomy thoughts, Father, Daniel said with as much comfort and reassurance in his voice as he could manage. If I may venture to speak my mind, I should say your fears are but imagined, if you forgive me for this liberty, Father. Whatever disputes arise between our lord the Prince of Murom and our lord the Grand Prince of Vladimir, it is hardly a reason to turn a chastising hand upon a man of God. Besides, I have known Prince Andrew for four years. He has been good to me.

Father Athanasius smiled a bitter, sad smile. Then you do not know him well enough. Trust your old hegoumen. This summons does not bode well.

Even so, Daniel said. Would it not be prudent to go and find out?

Father Hegoumen’s frown stiffened. It is but pride to assume you know better than your elders. And pride is a sin. I already told you, you are not going. I do not recognise you, my son. Since when are you so eager to disobey your brother hegoumen in favour of a dubious - should I use the word unbecoming a monk - adventure in the world? Cast away your pride and obey my orders.

This is not pride, Father, Daniel replied firmly, assured of what he was going to say. This is common sense. If you allow me to speak… Father Hegoumen’s silence was permission to continue, so Daniel went on. I urge you to listen to the voice of your mind rather than your heart. You cannot keep me in my cell forever. If, for whatever reason, Grand Prince Andrew has decided to apprehend me, the walls of Saviour Transfiguration will be poor protection. Next week he will send another messenger and you will have no excuses left.

Father Athanasius looked back intently, the wrinkles on his forehead somehow deepening in the candlelight. You do not have to stay in Saviour Transfiguration. I could send you off to Constantinople. Patriarch Michael will be glad to welcome you.

Exile! Daniel exclaimed. Do you truly believe I can live in exile for the rest of my life? Do you truly believe I can live with the knowledge that my old hegoumen and the brethren of Saviour Transfiguration have been punished sorely for my sake? His own words rang in his mind like bells, swinging him into motion. He leaned forward, his arms spreading in a gesture of supplication. But almost at once, he drew back, a wall of resolve up against him at the other end, an inscrutability etched on the old man’s face. Daniel felt himself rise, slowly, heavily, until he was standing in front of Father Hegoumen, in breach of all the laws of courtesy. If things are as black as you paint them, the Grand Prince will not forgive you. Would it then not be wiser to sacrifice one brother for the sake of three score others? Would it then not befit a monk to disobey his hegoumen and go to the Grand Prince of his own will?

With this impassioned plea the wall came tumbling down. The old man filled with tears. Blessed be the Lord that he has given you such pure heart, my son, Father Athanasius said.

Daniel felt embarrassed. Dear Father, when I called upon your voice of reason, I also wanted you to consider the summons once again. You will then see that there is nothing in it of what you fear. I did nothing to incense Grand Prince Andrew, nor am I going to. And I assure you he means no harm. The summons is indeed unexpected, but the reason behind it has nothing to do with your fears. Slowly, Daniel lowered himself back onto the bench. His heart was a steed