In moments such as these, God calls for tranquility, for patience, for a level head. You want to yell, swear enmity against him, but what would Christ do? What would Friar Gosiewski say? That this is a mere flesh wound upon the mind and soul, no, this is hardly even a scratch, dealt out by a man with a miniscule soul. Wherever you go, God will go with you. Play his game.
"As a steward of Your Majesty's."
"Very good," says the king, devoid of any real reaction. "Congratulations, then. We hereby bestow upon you the castellancy of…" he looks back at his desk, at the parchments splayed across its tabletop. "Orsa Rutheniae. Congratulations, too, then, on your senatorial rank."
Orsza. You try to calculate in the blink of an eye: Witebsk Voivodeship, by the Muscovite border, smaller town… Krzysztof nearby… Castellans don't usually have to actually manage a damn thing… And you are a senator… "I am honored, Your Majesty."
"Mhm. You will report to that city by mid-April where we expect you to work closely with a man named K— kuhmeet— Kmita, your… Deputy? How is it said… But he's also a spymaster of ours, with a web all across Muscovy." Oh. Oh. And, as if the King can read your mind: "Thusly we expect neither substitution nor absenteeism, no matter how customary it may be among your people. We have men who will be in touch with us regarding your performance."
Blast. It won't be a sinecure. And are "men" spies? Surely. This Kmita fellow himself? O, Lord — Orsza, who ever talks about Orsza? What a mess. "I am honored, Your Majesty," you say again.
"Although you may be of superior rank, we expect you to defer to and help Lord Kmita, on account of his importance and experience. Besides that, ensure taxes are paid, people are protected," he waves his hand. "You understand."
"I do, Your Majesty. God guide me."
"Yes, let us hope," says the King. He does that thing that he does – checking his nails, that is. "You are a most interesting Prince." You don't say anything. "Picking townsman-work over battle or a position as our cellar-master, willing to speak against us in France and here, make your mind known at Meaux and at this… Confederation." He smiles. "Yet unwilling to say a thing against us now. The pious humanist, the shy orator – the brave coward?"
Just breathe. Bear the wounds. Jesus guides you, not him. The King continues: "we are most interested to see how you fare on the border; it may be a nasty place. Best of luck. That is all. Congratulations again."
"Your Majesty," you say as a farewell with a bow. That's all you could say.
Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. You danced around in a little circle, angrily swinging at the air, feeling like a child, as soon as you could find a quiet corridor. You went to Friar Gosiewski that night – before Mariana or Marszowski or anybody – and you found yourself frustrated with him. The Rule possesses very little to say on a matter so secular and so all you got was Daniel and David again. In short, the usual. Make like a good judge from Deuteronomy. Such as in Corinthians and John, he said, those without love exist without truth anyways – his duplicity could never win and will undo him. And, yes, fine, lovely, the man's bound for the Pit, we know that.
"Mariana," you say, making her look up from her tapestry-weaving.
Things have changed. You've calmed her down some. You worry she may just be a little scared of you. "Yes, husband?"
"The King gave me an office. Castellan of Orsza."
Her big eyes blink. "That… Sounds lovely? You're a senator now."
You sigh. "But I'm expected to be at Orsza. As in genuinely, really there. Working."
"Oh."
"So we're going to Orsza. By the end of March if we can help it."
"Alright." She doesn't betray anything save for that blinking. "As you say, husband. Won't you come to–"
"I haven't prayed Compline yet. I'm sorry."
"Shall… I can join you, maybe? You know the Hours are different in my church. But prayer is prayer, says I."
You snort. "Don't be silly. There ought not be women around for me, and you can't just sidle in without knowing the Breviarum."
Hear me when I call, o my righteous God.
Thou turnest men to destruction; and sayest, "Return, ye children of men."
Stabilitate. Conversatio morum. Oboedientia. Ora et labora.
Holy oil upon Aaron's head, in his beard, down his tunic, washing over him. Such is the love of God for man. One need only look up.
You exhale through your nose. Scripture doesn't account for much of the Rule, the Rule doesn't account for all the scripture. "I don't mean to be severe, Mariana," you say, knowing that you are, in fact, being severe.
Her head cocks ever so slightly. "Thank you."
"It's just… Now is not the time. I need to be clean. I've faced such punishment and received such messages and I need to be clean." And now an inhale. Clench and unclench your fists. "Perhaps I'm… Trying too hard. Benedict calls for stability and balance above all else, but…"
"Dare I say, you're trying to be somewhat… Somewhat paschal? You just… One day, everything's back to life?"
"Yes, maybe, and that's blasphemy." She stays silent. "You? For saying that. Me? For, well," you look down at the blue you're wearing. "I mean, by God–" you catch yourself. You pull at the fabric. "What am I, a Pharisee? Who am I trying to impress?"
"Maybe yourself?" she asks meekly. Her smile and chuckle is even more furtive. "Clothes making the man?"
"Maybe. Let me pray on this." You're thinking about too many things at once, too many little sparks flying about in your head. Is it always war, must it always last forever?
The answer is complicated, you decide. You'll need to talk to the Friar about this but, upon a night of meditation on the psalms, of your lessons in France both formal and informal: yes, it is war, and, yes, it must last until the End Time. Yet the Armor of God cannot be found in mere blue cloth; when the Christ said He brought not peace but a sword, He spoke not of war on earth but the division of the world, the separating of parts by clean cuts. Cropping your hair is no tonsure, no. Shaving your mustache purifies nothing. To be sure, drink and dance and fine food leads to the Devil, but you wonder, perhaps, about moderating the moderation.
Thankfully, there's a perfect way of testing the waters. In fact, you're the island. Indeed, Kraków has been alive for days now, a great French-style coronation tourney just about ready to unfold, raucous and dangerous and brimming with what used to be fun for you. A few hundred florins in damage, Samuel Zborowski on the run for ax-murder, and thousands of gallons of alcohol poured into the gullets of thousands of nobles.
What do you wind up doing?
[] Tilting.
See if you can remember what you picked up in France, while simultaneously putting the rumors of cowardice to rest in front of just about everybody. Show off Sztylet in challenges of arms and borrow a destrier for a real joust. Sporting isn't the worst sin!
[] Feasting.
Alright, so, you lost yourself a little. Temptation all about. Enjoy the festivities, the pleasures, have a chat with old Marszowski and make a few new friends, too. However – if a man wishes to politick, gluttony may just have to be the spiritual price.
[] Getting to Orsza.
Let's get out of here. This place smells like Hell.