Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

His rust-colored beard flecked with gray, he looks like himself but older, standing beside a young man. The wind blowing in from the Baltic sweeps back cloaks and hair; the day is gray and chilly but doesn't feel it. In your fixation you scarcely notice the dozens of lesser szlachta milling about behind the two.

You drop all decorum and bound down the gangway, your aides pattering"oh-oh-oh sire-sire-sire" behind you, and your addled lungs are completely taxed by the time you reach him.

"Papa Chevalier!" you cry, as Sir Marszowski wraps you in a bear hug. The young man chuckles and lets it happen.

"By God, look at you!" gasps your old sword-and-dance master. "Can't tell if you look more like your father or mother, but – by God!" His expression drops as you start up a nasty coughing fit. "You're sick?"

"Hopefully not anymore," you say. "Awful bad flux. Everybody was biting their nails, but God kept me." You beat your chest and clear your throat. "And may He be praised, I suppose it just wasn't quite time."

His eyebrows are raised with worry, but his teeth gleam happily. "The Lord's judgment is flawless as ever then! We can get you riding and running again, have a physician talk to the kitchen-master for good food, ah…" It's only the second occasion you've ever seen him misty-eyed. He hugs you again, longer than the first.

"I like the style," interjects the young man with a smile.
.
You realize the two are dressed completely different from you, and suddenly your trunk hose and ruff are feeling very silly. They look quite strapping in their well-cut cloaks and dyed tunics, peacock feathers in fur hats flapping back like trees in a storm. Christ alive, who's the young one? Dammit dammit dammit. He looks familiar. He looks… A bit like Father?

He smiles even wider. "What? Don't remember me? We were thick as thieves when we were about, oh, this tall?" He gestures just above the knee. "Come now, whenever you visited Nieśwież?"

You squint. Oh! "Cousin Mikołaj?"

"Yeeees!" he says, at last hugging you. "You've got to be formal with me these days – Father's successor and all, in a sense I outrank you even. I suppose I've got a lot of influence, in fact." He chuckles and looks a little nervous; you hold your tongue. "But in private just call me Sierotka or Krzysztof, everybody does."

Sierotka… "You want me to call you 'orphan?'"

"Well, it was always my nickname, don't tell me you forgot," he said, not waiting for an answer. "When I was about four, Father and Mother brought me along to Wawel on business and I somehow got separated from them. Old King Zygmunt found me crying scared in the gardens and said to his servants: 'Now have you ever seen a sadder little orphan?' And that was that. In fact…"

You try to figure out your cousin, entirely divorced from the boy you knew him as. He was a chatterbox then and certainly now, but what's with the arrogant-affectionate vacillation? What is he even talking about right now? You make eye contact with Sir Marszowski, and he raises his eyebrows.

Bold! Ever so bold! But that's him, alright, unchanged. You start smiling, which makes Sierotka himself beam. "...Now isn't that just funny?"

"Oh yes," you say, snapping back to lucidity.

Sierotka's smile drops. "Ah, but– you know something, cousin, life isn't so funny anymore." He steps closer, too close to your face, and without looking away he orders: "Step aside, please, Sir Marszowski."

You feel an eyeblink pause before your old fencing master says, "Of course, Your Serene Highness." He takes a few large steps backward in a half-bow, arms behind his back, neck stretched reminiscent of a chicken. An attendant coughs; others smile or shake their heads. He joins in their own hushed conversations, wrist draped limply over the pommel of his sidesword.

Thankfully, Sierotka keeps his eyes trained on you, grabbing at the air for words. "The thing I can't handle, cousin, isn't the warfighting or the itinerary or upholding law and liberty or anything like that," he says, his voice quiet but harsh. "It's the backbiters, glory-hounds, mooches," he continues, "the gossips and minding everything you say and do and how you say it and do it!"

Sierotka growls through his clenched teeth and chuckles a little. "Enough to drive a man mad. And that's before you get into all these shrieking heretics –"

"Heretics?" you ask; your mind flinches with mild shock.

"Yes, loud, obnoxious, and greedy ones, too. Half the things they say are utterly senseless regarding any topic whatsoever," he begins. "They–"

"Yes, wait, but – you're not Reformed?"

"Ah! Forgive me. I didn't want to bring it up, but I know you and I can talk in good faith. I'm back in the fold like you, cousin!" he exclaims almost too loudly, his countenance brightening.

"Indeed," you reply with a smile, still on the border of disbelief. "Praise God! But – well – why?"

"Well, why don't I ask you that?" His volume control continues to waver. "I could prattle on about the theological this and the scriptural that but, to put things shortly, I find their notion of salvation, of the order of things, and of God himself, entirely… lawless."

Relatable. "Yes, right," you reply, "with to-each-their-own as if there aren't ancient and apparent truths handed down from the Lord to the Christ to His Apostles to the Church Fathers –"

Your cousin claps his hand on your shoulder and cuts you off. "Ridiculous! It's ridiculous. Arians, Ebionites, Gonesius' Brethren," he groans, swatting at a fly with his free hand. "They're more or less just making things up."

You're stumbling for words when Sierotka's face flashes with remembrance. "But I'm getting so terribly ahead of myself! Cousin, I'm going to France – that's why I'm here, besides giving a welcome," he says, now sheepishly sagging. "I was hoping you could fill me in, perhaps as I've done for you."

He has finally stopped talking. The deluge has ceased, thank God.

You derive a sliver of sadistic pleasure at his flash of weakness, his deference – only a few times in life have people come to you for counsel. You, the youngest son, little brother, the foreign prince far from home. You shake your head, "Madness. Utter madness. They are tearing themselves apart: it's Saturnine. I've seen battle –"

"As have I –"

Shut up, dear cousin! "I've seen battle, and let me tell you – killing and murder are distinct things. It's a distinction that extends beyond the law of man and, may He forgive me, God. I can't explain it…"

And you told Sierotka of the Massacre he learned of from German broadsheets, his expression neutral yet fixated. You told him of the dirtiness of Paris and its rabid citizenry, their hatred rising and falling with the months and years, of the islands of humanity and humanism found through your schooling and sheer luck. You told him of the Surprise at Meaux, your hands shaking as you spoke publicly for the first time before assembled lords, and of Huguenot treachery later met with Catholic slaughter.

You told him of Prince Aleksandar's role in all this. The orchestrator now barreling like round shot toward the Commonwealth's fragile mosaic of set and sect.

Sierotka shakes his head and knits his brow. "I suppose I had certain notions about the war in France I ought to correct. Sounds dire, and Lord be praised you made it out. I'll keep my eyes peeled," he says with disgust. "Let the heretics have their just desserts before God, not the sword. If they want a fight, they'll get one – that Jan Firlej, the Lutheran, he's always saber-rattling and barking and bellowing whenever he gets a chance…" He catches himself for once. "Well, I suppose I'll keep my ears open in Paris. Alarming."

He looks over his shoulder and waves Sir Marszowski back with a roll of the arm; your mentor approaches from behind looking as perplexed as he does miffed. "I appreciate your waiting, Sir Marszowski."

"Naturally, Your Serene Highness."

"Well," says Sierotka, clapping his hands together and giving a half-weary smile. "I think we've had an enlightening chat between cousins. I ought not hold you two any longer. Your carriage and my carrack just about overlap!" He laughs at his own joke. "Dear cousin, we're Radziwiłłowie, we'll meet again. And we'll meet again as comrades and brothers. But do remember, the world is much larger than Wawel and the Sejms and sejmiks. Don't let it swallow you whole."

That's the most insightful thing he's said all day! You give him a genuine smile at last. "Thank you, cousin. And likewise watch your step in Paris. They're a brutal lot."

You say your farewells: Sierotka's men gather to him and your attendants to you and Marszowski, a few key lordlings changing parties. You're at last granted some privacy with Marszowski in a coach beyond Gdańsk's city walls.

"With all due respect to your esteemed family, Your Serene Highness…" says Marszowski, face wrinkling with mischief.

"Yes, I know, he didn't shut up as a child either."

The two of you share your first laugh in about a decade. "I filled him in on Paris," you continue, "I was there for various proceedings." You see it in Marszowski's eyes: I know. Say no more. "He mainly complained about court life and heretics."

"Yes," agrees Marszowski, laughing dryly. "He's got that revert-fever, indeed, and melancholia to boot. He's more thoughtful than he comes off, you know. Struck me as a bit agitated today – that's when he really yaps."

"You know, mon bon Chevalier," you gesture downward at yourself, at your silly French getup. "I'm really feeling like a fish out of water here."

"Are you too old for lectures, my lord?" he asks, performing his eyebrow-cock.

[] "In this case – no."

[] "I've been doing some reading, though I reckon I'm a little out of date."

[] "It's alright. I'd rather learn the lay of the land myself."