Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

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XV. July 6-July 21, 1574. Orsza, Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
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    • The news came far too late — storms, they say, that swelled up the marshlands and washed out the roads.

    The King has abandoned his land. The French King is dead – that snivelling little murderer coward cur of an older brother – and the throne falls to Aleksandar. They say he left under the cover of darkness, as an infamis would. None are sure if he will return; they say an ultimatum calling for May of '75 has already been drawn up. Indeed, you are on the fringes, and are the last to hear of this. There's no time to waste. Father is at Wilno, Krzysztof is to the north of you, you reckon, around Witebsk, and you're unsure of where Septimus or Sierotka would be.

    Do you abandon your post, packing up your little court? Kmita says he won't stop you. The raids have died down a great deal, though the prisoner's promises of escalation must be noted.

    [] Yes, to Kraków.

    Get right into the thick of things, and fast. Hunt down Zamoyski, or the Zborowski brothers, or maybe even your eldest brother and cousin.

    [] Yes, to Witebsk.

    Meet with brother Krzysztof and Voivode Pac, too, to coordinate the Eastern defense before venturing westwards. Perhaps the best idea for the Grand Duchy proper.

    [] Yes, to Dubinki Castle and Wilno.

    The safest move, in your mind, is to head to the family seat to confer with Father. A son obeys.

    [] Yes, to Kijów.

    Oh?! That's quite a taking of the initiative. You move to meet with the Prince Konstanty Wasyl, unilaterally and on behalf of the family, with the aim of forming a united, pro-Imperial front in Lithuania. Going over Father's head may absolutely backfire, though, and who knows if you'll even be successful.

    [] Remain here.

    Mind this damned border; not to mention, you're growing a little fond of Orsza. Much to do here. Much to improve, perhaps a faith to spread, even. Besides, there may be some wisdom in waiting things out.

    There is also the issue of the of-late one-handed Muscovite noble, a young man named Jerzy, or Yuriy. An emissary with a promissory note for a sizable sum of silver has arrived, and you have agents ready to cross the border and receive it.

    Do you…

    [] Ransom him off and pocket the money.

    Not *necessarily* dishonorable.

    [] Ransom him off and give the money to the family.

    A proper prince.

    [] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.

    A farewell(?) gift, and a reinvestment into local coffers.

    And, at last, there is the issue of the captured Muscovite vory, as the lordling Yuriy spitefully describes his own men. Indeed, they seem like rough types, and possess no meaningful information. However, they do make decent light cavalry, and bear no loyalty to the so-called Tsar.

    Do you…

    [] Hang them.

    Scum.

    [] Cart them back over the border.

    Let the scum live.

    [] Bond them as serfs.

    If they don't all just run off, you'll have bought yourself a tiny village in the middle of Ruthenia. How quaint.

    [] Press them into service.

    Although of dubious discipline and loyalty, a training regimen could separate the wheat from the chaff and add to your sizable force of retainers and Lipkas. You know them to be solid horsemen.
     
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    • “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” July 17, 1574. Orsza, Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
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    • You were in the forest. You are in your bedchamber. The air is humid and stuffy. Your skin clings to the sheets. A hand is stroking your hair, another rests on your sternum.

    "It's been a long time since you've had a nightmare," Mariana says. "It's almost dawn."

    You exhale. Indeed. Feels novel, almost. It's odd that it comes now of all times, when you're finally forming some callouses, even seeing the brutal "fun" in battle. The thrill that exists in, at least. You are home, you are safe. In a sense. It's odd that you slept so soundly heading back to Orsza and, now, your first night in a proper chamber–

    "Stanisław?"

    You twitch a little. "Yes, yes, sorry. I started thinking."

    "About?"

    "About how… This battle felt different. Different from the bandits, different from the duel." You swallow. Your mouth is dry. "I almost liked it, I can't explain it. There's this buzzing. You get drunk off it, the thrill that you're alive and others aren't." Your pulse slows.

    "You're scared of that?"

    "Naturally." You smirk. "I'm scared of any intoxicant, anything that pulls me away from the Lord. And that's before the killing bit."

    She doesn't say anything for a moment. "You killed someone again?"

    "Yes. Two, or maybe three. That makes it four or five now."

    "You're not evil, Stanisław," she says plainly, reading your mind. "Not more evil than anybody else, that is. We're sinners all." You swallow. You can't think. You stare at the ceiling. "You can go back to sleep," Mariana offers.

    Listen to the frogs, and the bugs, and the little taps of summer rain on the window, the dust swirling in a moonbeam. Your wife's breathing.

    "No," you say, "I feel quite awake."

    Mariana sniffs. "A few years ago, back at Kodeń, a scullery maid — this waif of a little virgo — fell pregnant and wouldn't say who the father was." She pauses, and you look over at her; she's staring at the ceiling, too, it seems. "And so she'd be cloistered, as it goes. But right as the nuns were taking her out of the great hall, she turned to my father and said – I remember it word for word: 'I will one day stop loving my man, and in the convent I'll cry and cry for what I've done. Yes, I will hate it at first. But I will not have lost my love. I'll turn it to God; this will be no punishment for me, no satisfaction will anyone gain from a sinner's suffering. I will feel the sun on the shoulders of my habit and smile.' She held herself so close to her own breast. She stood tall. I had never seen a woman talk like that before."

    Ugh! "If she's not careful, that's mighty prideful, she's going to He—"

    "But I was going to say that she reminds me of you," says Mariana. "You're always on about pride — you see it in yourself, you see it in other people — what's it mean to you really? I've never thought to ask."

    "To forget, in one's conceit, that they are first and foremost a child of God. I gave into the pressures of worldly, princely life, for example," you explain. "As she, in her pride — I mean, she basically said she'd never submit."

    "That's not what I heard," she says flatly. "I heard a woman, love as her strength, knowing that she may have both the world and the Lord. The Christ walked among the sinners and knew them, Stanisław."

    "So…"

    "Well, you don't. You abhor them. The Savior saves through love. I think you ought to have some sun on your habit," she manages to chuckle.

    "Soooo…"

    "So I'm going to ask something of you, please: there are some Genoese musicians in town." You can hear her turn her head to at last look at you. "May we have them over for a little feast?"

    You sigh through your nose.


    You've been dreading this all day, praying on it, already asking for forgiveness. But she's hard to say no to.

    And now she's close to your lips, adjusting the brooch in your cap, straightening out its peacock feather. You hold your breath; you can never get used to the carnal side of things, for some reason, even after a year. Maybe childlessness is adding pressure, but nevermind that.

    "I cannot believe you put me up to this," you say.

    "Well," she smiles, "if the Friar complains, tell him it was your own personal Delilah that made you do it."

    You roll your eyes. "You toe a fine line…."

    "Oh, to the Devil, I cannot win, can I?"

    And she's really going to mention the Devil… "Mariana."

    She taps your nose with a whistle. "Try and have fun. I'm sorry I blasphemed," she says, signing the Cross as if by rote. "We're not doing gift exchanges or anything like that, remember? Nothing stately, just food and drink and dance with some local lords." She smirks. "Do you know the cascarda? It's newer."

    Ehmmmmmm— Oh! "Yes, actually." You can't help but smile. "I learned it the night I met you. Which was a while ago… And you know Marszowski and I don't practice so much anymore. Maybe I last tried a cascarda in May?"

    "Brave young hussar," says Mariana, putting on a baritone with a thick Western accent, like some sort of real scar-faced rider. "You mean to tell me you're scared of a little dance with a lady?" She returns to her pretty voice, her melodic Ruthenian drawl. "Come now!" she laughs.

    "I— I am not!" you exclaim. "By my boots, have you been drinking?" She's quite animated.

    "What? No! I haven't had a dance since our wedding night. I'm not allowed to be excited, my prince?"

    You sigh. The World is winning. You look into her eyes and freeze up every time. She's got some sort of hold on you, something that makes you think she's right, that you need to listen to her. It's in those cursed, damned eyes. Maybe she's more of a personal Bathsheba.

    But your heart stirs no matter what, you short-haired Samson. The local lords learned the cascarda from the Genoese quickly, which, praise God, gives you a dance's worth of time to surveil what exactly the steps are; it seeps back into your memory and, as it turns out, this dance is a rather flirtatious one. Naturally. You look over at her. "What?" she says, looking incorrigible. "You're going to like it."

    Maybe. Either way, the host can't exactly back out of dancing before the assembled guests, however inconsequential they may be. Although, it's always good to be generous, to entertain: Marszowski and van Gistel dance gleefully with local maidens, while Kmita holds court at his end of the table. It is nights like these – for the worldly, that is – that renew the bonds of liege and vassal, master and servant, man and wife. The herald announces his introductions, and Mariana stand with her hand extended. "Too late to say no now," she smiles.

    The dancefloor turns and gives a collective bow upon your arrival, men stooping and women dipping. A couple weeks out of practice, and just one song's worth to learn off observation. You nod to the musicians, approach Mariana, and exchange customary salutes – for a moment she is the Princess.

    And off! You charge each other, stop close, and begin to trot around each other in little circles, a little chase; and here is Mariana Sapieha, with her grin and crow's feet and tall cheekbones. You repeat the orbit twice before drawing away from each other, still trot-stepping from foot to foot. You end up a decent bit apart at transverses to each other, briefly halting with a hop – line up and mirror her! You shuffle over and look down: shoes to eyes, eyes to shoes (mainly shoes), kick, and kick.

    Where's the talking? The day you met, the two of you talked the whole time through the dance. You twirl about in place and Mariana laughs, its warmth spreading somewhat; there's a stylized approach – this is the flirtation – in which you approach Mariana closely, within inches of her face, as she stands her ground. You do so self-consciously, shuffling toward her on beat, well-aware of the frivolity and impious overtones. Mariana places a hand on her hip and tilts her chin up, performing incredulousness.

    "Hello, lord prince," she says as you dance about in front of her, her big eyes magnified and causing a flip-flop below your ribs. You don't reply. "Have some fun!" you twirl around and meet her face-to-face once more. "I can see it… I can see it…" she teases, as the mirror-game begins anew. The two of you kick backwards, away from each other. "I can see that smile peeking out!"

    Yes, indeed, the smile that'll keep you from salvation. You know that these are the ludes so warned about and yet you feel such a stirring, such a blooming; it comes from your lungs and heart and the top of your head. You laugh. Mariana laughs harder in reply. Try to contain yourself.

    Now it's Mariana's turn. She sidles up and, in her spare moment before hopping back to spin about, kisses a quick little tap on your nose.

    "A Delilah!" you cry, an unbidden smile on your face. And yet she swishes backwards – you to follow. Good facetime.

    "I have no need for a melancholic husband," she jokes. Ever the bold one! "He must learn that play and prayer can coexist." She jumps back and twirls. You love the way her skirts fly, turning her into a spinning top. The music sounds like summer without the heat.

    "I'm well-aware of your game!"

    "And I'm winning!"

    You scoff. Even so… Well, even so what? Keep dancing! The mirrored kicks come once more. "My lady…"

    A silence as the round of parallel steps and spins comes to a close. It's the final approach now, where the couple joins hands at last, the courtship complete. You take her palm into yours and the two of you dance a circle. You steal glances at her, and she steals them back. She doesn't seem intent on saying anything.

    A nice period to dance facing each other comes about, hopping left-right. In the humidity of the feasting hall, you feel the cool of the air breezing over you as you dance, the thump of your heart, the singing in your legs. It is the attunement of battle directed into the steps, into joy. And the Rule advises against mirth "That's your thinking face," you hear Mariana say, "how are you thinking and dancing all at once?"

    Indeed, that's odd. But are you really thinking, or merely noticing? Noticing everything about you, for a moment everything is no longer a game of intrigue or a threat or a robber-killer lurking around the corner. You dance through the final rounds of the cascarda, a man alive. Or, perhaps, utterly defeated by temptation, lost to revelry.

    You're not sure just what it is you're feeling as the dance draws to a close. You pant slightly, your muscles hum, and you feel completely alive.

    Mariana smiles, a little bead of sweat glinting in the chandelier's candlelight off her forehead. "    Happy?" she asks.
     
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    • “Quenching the Iron.” July 18, 1574. Orsza, Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
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    • It felt strange to go again when the last time was for murder. You cannot shake that idea. Despite the odd, terrible thrill of battle, the exceptions God will surely make for men fighting for their lives. Friar Gosiewski gave you the earthly-duties-of-a-prince reassurance but all you see is their faces.

    This time around, you headed to confession simply to deal with last night's frivolities. After the ritual is complete and penance handed out (wool clothes for a week and multiple Ave Marias), he raises his hand for you to stay.

    "Do you know why witches, heretics, sodomites – do you know why they must be burned, son? And I will tell you now it is not to strike fear into the hearts of the astray." He sniffs. "Though the Emperor does use it for counterfeiters. But why must those of great Sin be burned?"

    You cock your head. Fire destroys. Life grows from ash. "To… clean them?"

    Friar Gosiewski nods. "Precisely. It is a gift, really, to go to their God mortified greatly and well-punished on this Earth. So that passing fire may, perhaps, save them from the eternal one."

    He's right. "It's a mercy, in its strange way. But why tell me this?"

    "Because you need not reject the love of the world and the things in it so that you may love God better. It is prideful Sin to make a monk of yourself without tonsuring; it is haughty, in its way. You should pray and work, not work on praying."

    The Friar clasps his hands together, leans in. "I let you burn the way a convert burns; while it's not in place to comment on your Soul, I reckon you're a good deal cleaner than when you took me on. The time has come for maintenance. You will sin and cry mercy, sin and cry mercy, for Sin defines man."

    "I don't…" you can't believe what you're about to say. It doesn't make sense. Be less faithful?

    "You hate music like a Genevan, you say you won't see plays anymore. And yet do you not sing your psalms for the Hours?"

    "I do."

    He smiles gently. You've never seen the man anything less than calm and attentive. "And do you not think the Lord our God planted the seeds of holy music and mystery plays in the Blessed Sister of Bingen? Or that Saint Hieronymus never compared prayer to an oarsman's chant? Laughter invites Sin, yet humor is a gift from God. Remember that in the list of good works the Saint says to not be quickly and easily moved to laugh – not to not laugh at all, son."

    He taps his fingers together, forming shapes with his hands. "Indeed, the feast is a cause for trepidation; many gateways to Sin exist, it is quite easy to walk too close to the fire. But do not mistake a mystery play for a parody."

    "I don't understand. Benedict advises expressly against mirth."

    "Yes. Jesters, farces, satires and the like. Diversions. Much of the profane may yield sacred insights if one knows where to look. One simply must harden their heart and think of eternal life when the time comes to join in. You danced with your wife, and no other?"

    "Yes, father."

    "And do you reckon it deepened the bond of sacred marriage?"

    "I reckon it did."

    "And you had not more than musicians present?"

    "Not more than they and the guests."

    He pinches a temple, rolls his tongue around in his mouth. "Then those were hardly ludi. You know your penance is light this week. Yes, dancing may be Sin, but moderation, son, moderation. To be human is to fail and sin. Were you in my vocation, then it would need to be cut off completely. But to be a Prince is to be worldly. It is God's burden upon you."

    "It was the world that nearly destroyed me, father," you say, shocked that you're turning steely, "it is the Lord, His Son, and His Saints – they pulled me back from the edge."

    "And, in their unyielding mercy, they did," replies the Friar, unperturbed. "It's just that… You come to me speaking on these matters as gravely as you do when you kill men. It is odd, and in my mind, unfitting of an oblate. One must understand that good works and sins are a weighted thing. One mustn't forget that there are those which are mortal, and those which are more trivial."

    You swipe your hand through your hair. He's right. Perhaps. Perhaps partly right. Wouldn't he know better than you?

    The problem is that you cannot shake the court of France from your mind, with its powder and jewelry and sodomy and decadence. You found it distasteful even back then, before you truly knew why. Did God not visit terrible punishment upon them: to split their people in twain and set them against each other in a terrible mockery of holy war? That court, in its endless deceits and diversions, visited death and suffering and the gateway to truly mortal Sin upon the heads of all.

    And yet it seems that every turn, joy arises from Sin – and what to make of that? Prayer is truly rapturous, bringing tears and trembling at every Hour you can complete, and yet that dance with Mariana, the way Marszowski moves through life unburdened by the things he's seen. In it you see the sun, the one warming the serving girl's habit; you felt it on your arms with a ceiling above you. Moved to smile, to spite the great Saint. Or is this the light of the Lord Himself?

    Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

    You're not sure what you're sure of. It is God's burden upon you.
     
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    • “Loose Lips.” July 20, 1574. Orsza, Witebsk Voivodeship, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.
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    • After two weeks, he stopped being so sullen about the lost hand. He was brave through the whole thing, you admit it, biting his belt and hissing. Never screamed; that's a tough fellow. The cauter seems to have worked – no swelling, no pus or blood, no miasma. He'll live.

    "I was at this feast! One with big fight and fire on you all's lordship's jacket!" His name is Jerzy – Yuriy – and he seems to think this is all a big adventure at this point, drinking wine for the third time ever, tucking into an exotic leg of indyk.

    He struggles with the throaty "luh" sound of your tongue. He also is trying to be polite, but keeps speaking to you in the plural. It's too funny to correct. "Of course, this is why I attack you all's lands, crossing river, shedding blood. My master, Prince Szujski, told me to do it. For whole business with spies and deceit and all that. Said his honor's eh, ah, attacked? And this one is good servant: good servant obeys."

    Good servant killed hundreds of serfs, or did things worse than killing. He's a bastard. But Kmita advised for a light touch, so a light touch there will be. You blink, taking a bite of your own food. "Very well. And how far away is home, my lord?"

    He points toward the Dniepr; he saw it on his way into the castle. "Past Smoleńsk, in eastern Voivodeship's area. Away from battlefields."

    "So, were those men your family's?"

    "No, no, God, no," he laughs. "My job's not… not the good place to be, dangerous, no famousness. All my men er, uh, all my men were, what is it, vory."

    "Vory?"

    "Yes, vory… Uh, bad men, doing bad…"

    "Złodzieje?" It's pretty much the same word for "thieves" in Ruthenian, too.

    He lights up. "Zlohchyey, yes!"

    Vory… What's that make you, then, cur? Just because you were born in a little kremlin doesn't mean — you bite your tongue, of course. "Vory, I see. Vory." It's good to learn a new word, though. "Did you do something for such an assignment?"

    "Job was meant to be easy. Fast, in-and-out, easy silver. We weren't ready for you all's lordship's horses."

    Ah. An untested lad, like yourself, maybe. It softens you a little. They put him on an "easy" assignment and it went sideways for him. You chuckle to his face.

    "You all got us, it's true. Cannot say you all didn't," he shakes his head. "Fine fight." The poor man's eyes dart to his bandaged stump. "Poor hand."

    "Poor hand," you agree. "So, sir, do you reckon that battle will quiet things down?"

    He bobs his head and shrugs. "War is coming soon, I think. Real war. Never been this… this… hot before. Here on border. Not in this one's life, you all's lordship."

    Thank you, young Yuriy. "Tempers flaring?"

    "Forgive me, you all's lordship?"

    "People getting angry?"

    "Oh, oh. Oh, yes. My master, his master, blessed Tsar. Things are very…"

    You make the motion of a rope being pulled taut. "Tense?"

    "Tense. Angry, ready, eye on your new King. Want, um, mest', mest'..." He starts making shapes with his hand. "Get back at you."

    Ah. Zemsta. Pomsta.

    Revenge.
     
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    • I think that the best option that we can take for the commonwhealth is to stay and be alert, but if we have little more ambition we could go to our father

    Aslo i really like the little look on our life as a married man, kudos to You writing
     
    We know war is coming, the question is does us staying on the border actually make much of a difference. What can we do here the Kmita can't?
     
    [X] Yes, to Kraków.

    Get right into the thick of things, and fast. Hunt down Zamoyski, or the Zborowski brothers, or maybe even your eldest brother and cousin.
    [X] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.

    A farewell(?) gift, and a reinvestment into local coffers.
    [X] Press them into service.

    Although of dubious discipline and loyalty, a training regimen could separate the wheat from the chaff and add to your sizable force of retainers and Lipkas. You know them to be solid horsemen.
     
    [X] Yes, to Kraków.
    [X] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.
    [X] Hang them.

    We should show initiative and go to Kraków at once. Orsza was a penal assignment anyway, therefore staying here does us no good. If our Father or anyone else wants to share his thoughts, he can easily do so via letter or through our brothers and servants.

    Ransom the poor sod and leave the money to Kmita. We show care for our supposed castle and gain a valuable supporter via good old-fashioned bribe... not that we would ever dare to call it such of course.

    As for the Muscovite bandits... while it would be tempting to settle them, the thought of them running away and starting to terrorize the locals is a no-go in my opinion. They are already a bunch of misfits, that plundered and murdered, what's to stop them from doing so as common thugs? This is the same reason I don't want them in our company. They can easily betray us, run away or be bribed to do all sorts of nasty things. I say just hang them and give the locals a semblance of proper justice, since Kmita is the local Starosta and can make it look as per the book, rather than out of petty vengeance, like right after the battle.
     
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    Penal assignment or no, war is coming from the east. I think it is appropriate for us to provide for the defense of this border before we go off to politick.

    [X] Yes, to Witebsk.
    [X] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.
    [X] Bond them as serfs.
     
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    [X] Yes, to Witebsk.
    [X] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.
    [X] Bond them as serfs.
     
    [X] Yes, to Witebsk.
    [X] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.
    [X] Bond them as serfs.

    Let's leave the place nicer than we found it, at least.
     
    48 hours!

    note that Witebsk has one more vote than Kraków, and that serf-bondage and execution are tied for the fate of the Muscovite raiders.
     
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