Zamoyski smiles broadly. "I knew you must be a man of wit and character, lord prince. I reckon this will benefit you, me, the realm." He leans back in his chair; you sense a tinge of relief on his part. "Some of my supporters call me Gracchus but I know little of taxes and city-building and, God bless them, I'm not in it for the commoners."
"But you appreciate the Liberty."
"Yes. What nobleman cannot? But things are not quite perfect yet here in the Crownlands."
Was it his tone? Or simply the fact he's a Crownlander complaining after. "My land has been cut in two, sir, are your people not enriched by this?"
"They are, lord prince. I will not lie; and I cannot lie that, however selfish, this is a good thing for those I represent."
Honesty is refreshing out here. Zamoyski continues: "But neither you nor I benefit from the great houses of the Crownland running amok, enriching themselves, squatting on royal land, stomping making themselves into petty kings."
"You are aware you are more or less describing my kinfolk, Lord Zamoyski? And rudely."
"Yes, lord prince, I may just be." How fearless! "But what transpires in the Grand Duchy is of little concern to me. Lord prince – amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei."
Don't let him know you don't exactly know. "Name your inimici."
Zamoyski laughs with some mischief and adopts a harsh whisper. "They'll hear me." He straightens up. "I'll leave it to that redhead fellow that's always in your ear." Wow. "But, really, there's servants. Servants can be bribed. This is no Sejm tent, but…"
You don't like the way he's dancing around. You feel a tinge of the sanguinous humor. "Do you or do you not want the Frenchman, Lord Zamoyski?"
He raises his hands in deference. "You value the truth, that's clear enough, lord prince."
"So were you lying about my speech?"
"No. The bits on tolerance rang true. Notice how quiet everyone got when you started up on Aleksandar? He's the favorite." His palms clap down on his thighs. "Favorites are favorites. I'd want the Prince of Legnica but he's a drunken lout. Your people want the Emperor or one of his pups or tyrant Iwan," he clears his throat. "But let us not argue over these things, lord prince."
"The Iwan thing is…" Please do *not* give away that it's a ploy. You realize for a brief moment that you are clearly still learning. Why on God's green earth did France have to only teach you manners, logistics, and the extent of human cruelty? "The Iwan thing is irrelevant because Iwan won't win."
"It's strange, is all–"
No more, no more, you feel that sinking feeling of imminent defeat again. "Lord Zamoyski, you may go." He blinks rapidly. "I am glad we can agree on a few things and perhaps we will be friends regarding them," you say, no, declare.
He seems remarkably unoffended. Or is pretending to be. "Very well – perhaps I pried, lord prince." You're not apologizing, though. "May we meet again without an election to squabble over!" He smiles. "I believe we agree more than we disagree by and large." You both rise in uniform and a mildly tense handshake is exchanged. "God be with you, sir."
"And you as well, sir."
Words can be like dry powder. Or maybe more like the spark that lights it? An errant phrase, a stray statement of intent, a listing of likes and dislikes – peasants talk of anything and everything as they nit-pick each other or beat their clothes clean on stones.
But not you. Not us. For your kind, whenever in public, there is always a dance afoot, twirling and on tiptoes; a falsely-placed foot can lead to a little trip or a bone-breaking tumble.
Lord Zamoyski clearly put himself to work making all aware of your receptiveness to the prospect of majority rule under viritim – a Radziwiłł's voice is louder than a jurist's, louder than the petty lords arguing for unanimity, for total equality before their betters. The Sejm camp was abuzz with this revelation, praising its practicality or damning the seemingly-imminent death of the leveler lordlings' faction. Though this matter would be settled through and before the new king, many whisper that things were now set in stone.
You feel a little silly, a little taken advantage of. Even if you're on his side regarding this. The days pass. You learn that an increasing number of your fellow Lithuanians are turning to Aleksandar, despite your warnings. The hope for the return of the lost voivodeships and rolled-back privileges is a source of great desperation – they'll go for anyone who feels like a safe bet. A letter from your father says it's increasingly turning into herding cats, but emphasizes that that fact changes nothing for your current task.
On the morning of the 23rd, things were finally settled as the day's Sejm Marshal stood before the assembly, parchments in hand.
By the fifth article your victorious faction is roaring. The Marshal screams to be heard:
"Because in our kingdom there is not little but great disagreement over matters of faith regarding the Christian religion, for this reason we desire the prevention of any violent disputes between the camps from arising, as has been seen in other kingdoms!"
You join the obligatory Hear-hear!
"Item one!" Then the obligatory shushing.
"Therefore under oath we promise ourselves and our descendants forever by our good faith, honor, and conscience: although we are of different faiths, we will keep peace between us. We do not want to shed blood because of the practice of this or that religion or changes in worship services!"
Huzzah!
"Item two – neither will we allow one nobleman to threaten the other over matters of faith to punish him, confiscate his goods, imprison him, or expel him!"
Praise God!
"Item three – nor shall we aid any higher authority in such activities in any way!"
Long live the Liberty!
"Item four – If anyone should try to force or shed blood for reasons of faith, we will oppose that, even if he should present a higher order for it!"
Together we are strong!
A glorious day. With pride and some pomp did you affix the Radziwiłł seal to the document; the "Confederation of Warszawa" has a good ring to it. Perhaps only the interfaith wedding at Notre Dame – rioters outside be damned – did you feel as hopeful for a country's future. The Massacre was six days later. Made it feel even worse. Somehow. Hm. But these people – your people – they seem different. May the barrel remain untapped.
Of course the next thing to do is get utterly plastered. You're in the haze with the rest, sliding and tripping through the muddy camp mocking the bishops and cardinals and Papal so-and-so's up in the fake Wawel. The decorum is gone; Christian names are brought out.
Sir Marszowski's got his arm around you as the two of you took a breather away from the thickest carousing. "Jan Zamoyski!" he exclaims, "and it was Jan Zamoyski calling on you! Don't you – lord prince, just 'cause he's Royal Secerre– secer– se-cruh-tary, that's a powerful man right there! Knows everything an' everybody."
"Aw well that's bad cuz I absolutely told him to pissoff!"
"What?! Why?"
"Well I got on him for wanting that French bastard and then he got on we Lithuanians for the whole joke about Iwan–"
"Oh by God what did you say?"
"Nothing insane or insulting I just was pretty abrupt is all. But he pressed me! Me! Alright? I tried to drop it but then he pressed me still. Kurwa! Nobody– cunts never treat me with respect!"
Marszowski cackles. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh an' look at that fire! Well yknow it's gained, no, it's earned not – kurwa. Long as you didn't fuck anything."
You're laughing too. "I think I read your meaning; no I dint fuck anything."
"Standin' up for yourself – issa fine line…" he's wearing his punchline face. "Bes' not be abrupt when Firlej asks you 'bout his daughter–"
"You know everything before I do!"
"Lieutenants talk to lieutenants yknow lord prince! Grapevine aint an actual plant." You ooo-aaa and laugh at yourself as he jumps up and clicks his heels in a very sober fashion. Andrzej Marszowski of the Cholewa: human tomcat. "And! Grapevine graped that Konstanty Ostrogski's itchin' for you to meet his youngest girl, Elżbieta," he says, "don't confuse 'er with sad widow Elżbieta Ostrogska, God bless 'er; this one's 'bout your age."
"Ay by Maria this is ridiculous. What's the Firlej girl's name?"
"Jadwiga. Kinda funny, no, lord prince?" Would that make you the new Jagiełło? "You're the… The… You're the pick a' the litter!"
The news has sobered you up a little. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Your Mariana, f'course!" he says, blocking your path and making you halt. You can smell the gorzała on him. "I know I advise an' discourage, advise an' discourage – but love, lord prince, beautiful love! Can't deny you of it! I'm confessin'!"
Time to Marszowski Marszowski. You try to convincingly spit it out with venom. "Unacceptable. You are relieved, Sir Marszowski."
His jaw drops. Got him! "Wha–"
"You've deceived me on matters of my marriage and oh my God–" you burst out laughing. "I'm sorry!" Cannot stop laughing.
"Damn you to Hell, lord prince," says Marszowski with a shake of his head. "Well-played." He looks a little sour. "Wait now why get me on this, now a' all times? Right when I come clean."
"Honestly – must win the game sometime," you say, head starting to feel light again as the shock dissipates. "Tired of bein' the last to know, bein' the victim… The victim of all this, ah, all this fuscans. Latin…"
"I'd wag my finger at you again were you a victim, lord prince! Welcome to Polonia. You'll learn."
"I'll learn."
You dreamt that night even though you were drunk. And it's always one of two: it was the Moncontour dream this time, not the new one, not Paris. The Hugues – in their thousands – are all crying and begging and praying, a few of them standing tall in proud silence, but the pikes and knives and axes and cudgels laid them all down. A few got lined up and shot with muskets and crossbows as a mercy. One of the tough ones wasn't going down and screamed Am I your Sebastian Papist am I your Sebastian until they got him through the neck. They didn't let you kill anybody but you stood and watched and the blood flowed downhill about a half-inch high over your boots. Except you start sinking. Slowly, slowly, and suddenly all your comrades are gone and the Protestants are standing up and speaking through cut throats, reattaching missing heads and hands, cursing you to Hell, your wife-to-be, your unborn children. The tip of a halberd hovers toward your eye closer and closer and –
How are you so happy when you're awake? In relative terms, perhaps. As usual, you try to block it out; some brandy at breakfast and port after lunch smooth things over. Inhale, exhale. You held no sword that day.
The strangest thing about that day was how Prince Aleksandar was there. How he tried to save as many men as possible, or the noble ones at least. People change. Or maybe just reveal an inner nature, the nature of Cain, Eve, Attila, the false Caesar Iwan.
Eastwards to Lithuania and Dubinki, through the pine and spruce and birch, across the rolling hills and miles of plateaus – but not before seeing her again. You will see her before you cross the border, in her castle like a fabled princess at Kodeń. Her. Her. Which her? You know which her. The first woman you ever really… Noticed. In the true sense, that is. The French ones seemed so far away, so abstract, but the Lady Mariana Sapieha of the Lis – you kept repeating her full name for some reason – is very real. Very very real.
But now there's more. Not that there are really more, but, well, politics waits for nobody. Marszowski's gone back to advocating for keeping options open and politics in mind, but you know well as anybody that drink leads to truth-telling. You won't be able to meet Lady Firlej for a bit, while Lady Ostrogska should be in Kijów or thereabouts.
Well?
[] Write to Lord Firlej asking to begin correspondence with his daughter, Jadwiga.
Now there would be a strange – yet potent – match. Daughter of the leading Protestant matched with the third-in-line to the quasi-throne of the Grand Duchy. You've heard she's extremely well educated, eloquent, and shrewd. Apparently on the sickly side, though, and as religious as her father.
[] Write to Lord Ostrogski expressing interest in meeting his daughter, Elżbieta.
Everybody says the young Elżbieta is hellbent on not turning out like her trodden-upon elder cousin, Elżbieta Halszka. Thus they say she's difficult and mannish. But is that just the slander spoken by those fearful of a girl with a real fire?
[] No. Mariana and Mariana alone.
Such passion. Expressing interest in Firlej or Ostrogska does not exclude Mariana from the running, though.
It's a cute little palace they've got here at sleepy Kodeń, so close to the Bug you can hear her babbling. Well-fortified and well-crafted, despite some glaring signs of a tight budget.
You ride up to the gate with your entourage into the arms of waiting Sapiehowie. A downright ancient man seems to be their leader. Such big eyes – wait.
"I would bow if it wouldn't kill me, Your Serene Highness," he laughs to himself in a voice that's still strong.
You drop down from the saddle and give a near-subservient bow. "Lord Paweł Sapieha of the Lis?"
"Indeed, Your Serene Highness, 'the Never-Old,'" he smiles with an impressive number of remaining teeth. "Picked that nickname up back during Hussite times."
Oh, oh, that's a joke. Hussites were… Laugh! You laugh. "You may drop the styling, my lord." You try to jest back: "No man is superior to the hero of Grunwald himself."
He liked that one. "Please, into my home, lord prince, my daughter is in the great hall."
Immediately servants begin to take cloaks and caps from you and your men, as grooms lead the horses off for water and fodder. Old Paweł talks about this and that – very curious about the Confederation, his health naturally detained him – "I remember when Luther did it, you know. I was already a man grown. Praise God, the slaughter won't find us yet."
The jokes continue, as does the exchange of information on this and that. Whether or not the Tatars and barbarian Muscovites are acting up on the fringes of your homeland, how you met Jans Zamoyski and Firlej but not Kiszka or Sieniawski.
But right before reaching the great hall the old man's countenance drops and he asks to pull you aside; naturally, you agree. "I am very protective of my women, lord prince. They should know that they are worth their weight in gold – many daughters are – but a disobedient one is nothing but lead."
Well, this is a change. He's no dodderer. Is it an act? "Why tell me this, sir?"
"That she is indeed obedient and a good young lady. I take your courtship of my youngest very seriously, lord prince. I will certainly father no more children. You must understand the implications for me to marry into a family as esteemed as yours."
"I am rather quite serious."
"Rather or quite?" he smiles his half-toothless smile. "Oh, nevermind. You are here, lord prince, and that's all that matters. And she speaks of you very well."
That was somewhat offensive. How come people keep thinking they can talk to an Imperial Prince like this? Well, as Marszowski said once: you may well be a newborn out here. Respectfully, you're not your brothers yet, lord prince.
It thaws when you see her, though. She approaches and, with a near-hidden hand by her hip, gives you a little wave. She smirks before breaking eye contact and curtseying deeply – much more ladylike.
You smile and bow. "My lady."
"My lord."
You cannot stop smiling. "It is very good to see you again," you say.
"Likewise, my lord." She looks over her shoulder, at her father.
This is very guarded. She is nervous; you have never seen her nervous. "What do you reckon we should do, my lord?"
You keep on smiling, but you can feel the concern that you're wearing on your face. "Well, if I may defer, my lady, I am in your home, your land." You want to get her out of here and quick, let her do something only she wants to do.
"Well, I have a new buzzard I'd like to break in. But I've also heard of a fine stag in our woods."
She hunts? You love the hunt! Despite the killing. What can't she do? But falconry sounds fun, too.
You look over your shoulder at the old man. Mercifully, he gives a shrug. "Three chaperones, and extra huntsmen should it come to it," is all he says.
[] "Let's go for some falconry, my lady."
[] "Now I'd love to see a lady hunt."
Will begin "Totus Floreo" Part Two.
