Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
- Location
- United States
[X] "Very well!"
[X] "Very well!"
Notification of Oopsie regarding Połock
- Location
- United States
major party foul committed: Połock is, historically, enemy territory at the moment. I was off by a couple years as to when it was returned to proper Sarmatian hands. Like with the Smolensk Voivodeship, Połock Voivodeship still exists and bears titles despite it not being under Polish control. While it's not inaccurate for me to mention that your brother is "around Połock," I will be changing the place you're travelling to to the town of Uła, which I reckon is right on the border at the moment.
Ack! Saint Sertorius have mercy!
Ack! Saint Sertorius have mercy!
Last edited:
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "Very well!"
Rolen von Keng
Sleeping Green Bear
- Location
- The Wilderness
[X] "Very well!"
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
[X] "Very well!"
[X] "Very well!"
XVIII. August 6-September 2, 1574. Uła to Wilno to Kraków.
- Location
- United States
"Very well!" He's already mounting up. "No fair! No fair! Hey!"
"A hussar believes in honor, not fairness!" he shouts back.
"What does that– that doesn't even…" Go! He's flicking his reins with a "kyah!"
You hoist yourself up on to Sztylet, spurring him so hard as to make him scream a little, and see through the dusty haze that Krzysztof's already a good bit ahead. You hunch down low and acclimate yourself to the powerful rhythm of a half-mad beast beneath you; you abandon true thought, abandon your past, the constant drumming that brings you to tears in times of prayer – now there is only the rush of wind.
It seems straightforward enough – literally. A dirt track flanked by alternating forests and hedgerows, which have turned to green streaks in your peripheral. It may come down to the horses, or who can keep themselves pinned down low enough on their horse. And, unsurprisingly, Krzysztof's midnight-black stallion, gleaming with sweat, didn't even need the head start.
But Sztylet's a good horse, a courser well-suited for this kind of task. You spur and spur and spur and he brings you inching up closer to your brother, your eyes burning and throat choking up in the kicked-up clouds of dirt.
Which is how you nearly miss the obstacle that's sent your brother far to your left, shielding his face from the hedgerow's sticks and stems. You hear someone yelling on the wind – it's a wagon full of hay!
You pull the reins hard to the right and pray that poor Sztylet won't break his leg on a stone in the little drainage ditch. Now, you too must look down to avoid the flying thorns and spear-sharp offshoots of the scrub, and you're forced to slow down. The wagon-driver swears loudly and says something about noblemen.
You look to your left and find that Krzysztof got bogged down, too. "I'll whip you for that!" he yells over his shoulder toward the wagon. His eyes shift to you and he wheezes a laugh before kicking back with his spurs.
It prompts you to do the same; it's not over just yet. You can just hear Krzysztof: "follow me! Forget this road!"
He nearly disappears; he crosses the road and is sucked up into the bushes.
It's a trail! You barely, barely make the turn, and feel its sharpness in your head and neck. Sztylet snorts loudly, and the full gallop of the track is traded in for a careful hopping over stones and roots – you can't blame your steed for his trepidation.
You look up from the treacherous earth and properly acknowledge that you're in a grove of pine and alder, barring you in with its beauty into a path barely two horses wide. Krzysztof is well, well ahead of you, nearly out of sight, and you shake your head.
You try not to feel betrayed, like this was some sort of contrived thing. Rather, you try to accept that a man who knows the land – his land – will likely triumph in any contest. When you were boys, during that little isle of camaraderie and childhood before he went off to war at thirteen, he liked to get the jump on you even then. But it was always done with a good heart, a genuine smile. Never cruel, but always teasing.
You allow yourself to slow, to feel your own heartbeat, to take in the light catching on leaves and cutting slivers through the patchy canopy. Sound returns: the swishing of wind through the trees, the birds chirping, and you realize all at once that you felt the buzz of combat in this, too. Fun? But now you are among the peace of creation.
You're not so interested in winning anymore, but you do want to put up a respectable performance, maintaining a careful canter. Sztylet serves you well, leaping over fallen pines, breathing heavily. You lose yourself to the feeling of the sweat under your cap, the mugginess of the air, how overdressed you are. Breathe in, breathe out. You listen to the thudding of hooves, smell your horse's sweat. As your pulse slows, you find yourself nearly in a dream. You feel like a fool, but you reach out for a butterfly drifting by. Perhaps there is more than one way to feel alive.
Mariana's story of the fornicator maid forced into the convent, her unwillingness to be crushed by the things imposed upon her. You could now understand her willingness to find the love of the Lord and His Son – sinner that she may have been, but who is not one? – anywhere, everywhere, in the sun that would greet her habit, dappling her penitence. It is a good thing to be a prince who will have a horse race with his brother, it is a good thing to be a prince who can notice a little insect. You hope that is the sum of all your meditations, and you offer up an obligatory, spoken aloud: "praise be to God."
By the time you arrive at Uła – merely a large village – Krzysztof's waiting for you by the town well, a few peasants on their knees around him, caps in their hands and heads downturned. "I told them that I knew there's a thief amongst them and that I'm in pursuit," he laughs, before switching to Ruthenian and speaking down into the dirt. "I was joking, children, back to work – though I want the name of the man driving the hay wagon today."
The serfs rise and bow and leave hunched low and diffidently. That's rather cruel, you think, but nevermind that. "So, what," asks Krzysztof, speaking Polish again, "you gave up?"
"Well now, I was doing quite well until the forest came up. I think you tricked me!" you tease. "What was that bit about honor and fairness?"
"Honor comes to the victor, and to a victor who looks upon his men as brothers and treats them as such, a Christian warrior. But no one ever said anything about the means of victory, of survival. But did I cheat?"
You make a face. "No…"
"But I could've if I wanted. Anyways–" he looks over your shoulder. "Who's that?"
A petty noble is riding up; you can tell that straightaway from his modest dyes and well-worn fur hat. "My lords! My lords!" He begins to stammer apologies as he halts his horse.
"What is it?" you ask in unison with your brother. "My lord, the Voivode Stanisław Pac, dispatched me – a letter with the Radziwiłł seal for His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław of Dubinki and Birże."
"For you, eh?" grins Krzysztof. "Must be Father."
You break the seal and read the letter quickly and hungrily. It's brief, to the point – written in his own hand, it seems – and bears a rather simple message: "I'm to meet with him at Wilno." You look up at the blank faces of your brother and the messenger.
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Odd."
"Indeed," you say, trying to settle a tingling in your stomach. You turn to Krzysztof. "Will you come with me, brother?"
"I cannot," he shakes his head. "The Voivode of Połock has been dying for months now; he's delirious, and so it falls to me to hold this part of the border, lest they take more than just the city they've already got." He sighs. "What a damned shame. Right when I see you again. I suppose you'll have to leave as soon as possible? Perhaps we'll split a bottle of gorzała and pretend to be bumpkins tonight?"
"I consider that a sin, brother," you say flatly.
Krzysztof sucks in his lips. "Well, ehm, of course, yes."
Whatever this is, it seems to be for you alone. Perhaps Septimus will be at Dubinki, at least, and you can see him along the way.
You left Uła and Krzysztof with a too-soon haste; they say a man may only rely on his family, and you hate that you hardly ever get to see your kinfolk. But as for Father… Well, like your brothers, you hadn't seen him since the Frenchman's coronation. However distant he may be, you felt called as ever to be a good son, a good Radziwiłł. He is never to be refused.
It is always a little unnerving to meet with him. Nothing ill has ever come of an audience, but it always means that something is churning. It's a week's ride from Połock Voivodeship, and you waste no time bandying about in folwark houses or meeting amiably with friends of the family.
Father looms in the great hall of the Lower Castle of Wilno, the old home of the Grand Dukes. You find yourself taking him in all over again: he is as tall as Krzysztof and built as solidly, too – were it not for his white hair and snowy beard, one could mistake him for a still-strong man of forty-five, halfway to a giant. You bow before him as a vassal, yet note that there is scarcely anyone around to see it. The servants and retainers must have been called off.
"You honor me, son, and it is good to see you again," he says. "I am told that you are at last finding your legs on the field of battle, as you have in contests of honor and of rhetoric. This pleases me."
For once, people are convinced of your willingness to fight. As much as it almost makes your stomach lurch, you smile. There are few things worse to be on this Earth than a coward. Especially a Radziwiłł coward. They say, under his clothes, Father is spiderwebbed with scars.
"Thank you, Father," you say. You open your mouth–
"You are certainly wondering, 'why have I been called upon?' Your exile is over, son," he gives a little smile. "Welcome home. You see, I am of the opinion that the Frenchman will never return. After all, why would he?"
You nod. "I agree. Waiting till May seems generous."
"Indeed. But many are in denial, hoping against hope. But Radziwiłłowie do not rest, Radziwiłłowie do not wait and see." He crosses his arms. "Do you recall my victory at Czaśniki?"
It was why he wasn't there to say goodbye when you left for France. The war was fierce then. It was a triumph, you're told. "Yes, Father, of course, you routed an army at least thrice the size of your own and…"
"Yes, indeed, I'm not surprised you know the stories. But do you know how?"
Oh. He raises a deferential hand, offering an inkling of softness on his face. A rare thing to see. "It is alright that you don't know; you were abroad not long after. The Muscovites divided themselves into three columns, heading westward, deeper into the homeland, much too early in the season. Their wagons sunk into snowdrifts, hidden ditches. I was leading an advance force – just our horse, the cannon and foot lagging behind. But I did not wait. One by one we took them, and each time they fled like dogs before us, leaving a trail of dead."
He smiles. "A serf dashed their prince-commander's brains out with a carving ax, like some common soldier. A great day, and a great lesson."
"Your skill in battle is legendary, Father," you offer. And it's true. Mikołaj Rudy – 'the Red' – called such not just for his ruddy complexion, perhaps.
"Perhaps, may God forgive me," he mutters, eyes flickering to the ceiling. Piety? There is so little you don't know of him.
"But, so, you're saying there's no time to waste, Father? That we must strike now?"
"Yes. The Walezy camp is discredited and in disorder. We must make our bid for an Imperial candidate – and quickly. I saw the way you spoke at the Confederation, what I have heard of your time in the borderlands is encouraging." He lowers his voice, ever so slightly. "I am entrusting you with a task of significance. Your brothers must remain here: Mikołaj to help me govern, Krzysztof to protect our holdings. You are to find an Imperial candidate at their own court."
Your mind is set alight. A foreign court, foreign customs, foreign people, your German lacking, your task great, to say the least. You betray yourself only with a dry swallow. "Yes, Father. It will be done," you say, careful to show nothing. It shall be a step into the fog, as a ship off into the Indies. At least your return is guaranteed, lest bad water take you.
"Determine whether the Emperor himself is interested, or one of his sons. This shall be a private mission, conducted under our own banner. There's no hiding a Radziwiłł leaving the country, but you are to move with haste and discretion. Kraków hosts your cousin, the Zborowscy, the Prince Konstanty Wasyl's sons. The Princess Anna, as well, though I see no reason why we ought to speak with her. Find men willing to accompany you – they should be in no short supply."
"Yes, Father," you say. "I will not fail you." You cannot. You bow once more.
He nods.
The days fly on the road to Kraków. The swaying pines, sunlit canopies, and blue-skied days are lost to a haze of a worry, of contemplation, of consideration. This dwarfs the weight of your duties at Orsza by far, in your mind, and you lose a little more sleep with each passing day. You pray far beyond your Hours, praying for aid, for clear eyes, for a safe passage, that a godly and skilled new prince be delivered to Crownland and Lithuania alike. And, perhaps, it shall be your hand that unclenches for the twin nations and makes an offer. All in its due time, that is.
By the time that Wawel's red-roofed towers appear high atop their hill, you've developed a bit of plan. You'll have to enlist these noble figures (or not), but you opt to…
[] attempt to recruit a large, impressive entourage.
Bring along everybody willing, everybody belonging to the pro-Habsburg faction. This includes, but is not limited to: the eldest son of Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski – a young fellow named Janusz, who advantageously spent his childhood in Vienna – one or several of the Zborowski brothers, and your cousin, the Prince Mikołaj "Sierotka." Your full retinue of Marszowski, van Gistel, Friar Gosiewski, and Mariana will all come along, as well as everyone's manservants, ladies-in-waiting, valets, even cooks. The goal here is to impress with pomp, fine dress, and to create a impression that a great column of Polonian (you'll permit them calling you that) emissaries are bound for the Austrian court at Vienna. However, the sheer size of your mission will be talk of both the Commonwealth and the Empire, and the abundance of secondary personnel make leaks of information likely.
[] Make this a family affair.
From among the ranking nobles, bring along only your loquacious cousin, Sierotka – however much he irks you, it's said that he possesses the gift of gab when it counts the most. He also represents the late Mikołaj Czarny's line, thus bringing Imperial Princes (for your title *is* of the Empire) representing both Nieśwież and Dubinki into the court of your family's erstwhile benefactors. Only Marszowski and Mariana (van Gistel would rather not meet the Habsburgs for obvious reasons) would come along as well to woo the lordlings and ladies, respectively; it's a shame to leave behind your confessor, but Vienna is Jesuit country. You reckon that the coming of additional dignitaries would both blunt such a gesture, and run the risk of having too many cooks in the kitchen. It also makes it clear that, for now, this is a strictly Radziwiłł venture – perhaps making your family's name more memorable down the line. However, there's always the risk of appearing underwhelming.
[] depart with an ever-so-slight furtiveness.
Bring only yourself, some heralds and servants, Mariana, and Marszowski. Keep things as close to silent as they can be; everybody will know, of course, but putting on airs could enrage the more numerous "Piast" camp, who angle for a Silesian or Transylvanian prince. There's no point in making things difficult at home. Although this will likely underwhelm the Austrians, it also makes clear that this is a noncommittal, informal visit and could therefore break down some of the stateliness of it all. It'll also ensure that not a breath of what was discussed will filter back to the homeland, in all likelihood.
And regarding the pawn, the princess, the aging pearl, the woman who would make or break a would-be king's bid for the throne, the one who rules over herself yet nothing else: Anna Jagiellonka, the last of the old royal line – shall you meet with her?
[] Yes, and make your intentions known.
It's a little bold, but the opportunity found in making an ally of the woman who would legitimize nearly any candidate cannot be understated. Not to mention, she's a good Catholic and, they say, a devotee to the good of the realm.
[] Yes, but keep it light.
It is good to make an acquaintance of the realm's most powerful woman, but there's no need to tell her everything.
[] No.
She doesn't really have a say in anything *truly,* you reckon, even if she's without a guardian. Why speak with a bargaining chip, why risk letting something slip?
"A hussar believes in honor, not fairness!" he shouts back.
"What does that– that doesn't even…" Go! He's flicking his reins with a "kyah!"
You hoist yourself up on to Sztylet, spurring him so hard as to make him scream a little, and see through the dusty haze that Krzysztof's already a good bit ahead. You hunch down low and acclimate yourself to the powerful rhythm of a half-mad beast beneath you; you abandon true thought, abandon your past, the constant drumming that brings you to tears in times of prayer – now there is only the rush of wind.
It seems straightforward enough – literally. A dirt track flanked by alternating forests and hedgerows, which have turned to green streaks in your peripheral. It may come down to the horses, or who can keep themselves pinned down low enough on their horse. And, unsurprisingly, Krzysztof's midnight-black stallion, gleaming with sweat, didn't even need the head start.
But Sztylet's a good horse, a courser well-suited for this kind of task. You spur and spur and spur and he brings you inching up closer to your brother, your eyes burning and throat choking up in the kicked-up clouds of dirt.
Which is how you nearly miss the obstacle that's sent your brother far to your left, shielding his face from the hedgerow's sticks and stems. You hear someone yelling on the wind – it's a wagon full of hay!
You pull the reins hard to the right and pray that poor Sztylet won't break his leg on a stone in the little drainage ditch. Now, you too must look down to avoid the flying thorns and spear-sharp offshoots of the scrub, and you're forced to slow down. The wagon-driver swears loudly and says something about noblemen.
You look to your left and find that Krzysztof got bogged down, too. "I'll whip you for that!" he yells over his shoulder toward the wagon. His eyes shift to you and he wheezes a laugh before kicking back with his spurs.
It prompts you to do the same; it's not over just yet. You can just hear Krzysztof: "follow me! Forget this road!"
He nearly disappears; he crosses the road and is sucked up into the bushes.
It's a trail! You barely, barely make the turn, and feel its sharpness in your head and neck. Sztylet snorts loudly, and the full gallop of the track is traded in for a careful hopping over stones and roots – you can't blame your steed for his trepidation.
You look up from the treacherous earth and properly acknowledge that you're in a grove of pine and alder, barring you in with its beauty into a path barely two horses wide. Krzysztof is well, well ahead of you, nearly out of sight, and you shake your head.
You try not to feel betrayed, like this was some sort of contrived thing. Rather, you try to accept that a man who knows the land – his land – will likely triumph in any contest. When you were boys, during that little isle of camaraderie and childhood before he went off to war at thirteen, he liked to get the jump on you even then. But it was always done with a good heart, a genuine smile. Never cruel, but always teasing.
You allow yourself to slow, to feel your own heartbeat, to take in the light catching on leaves and cutting slivers through the patchy canopy. Sound returns: the swishing of wind through the trees, the birds chirping, and you realize all at once that you felt the buzz of combat in this, too. Fun? But now you are among the peace of creation.
You're not so interested in winning anymore, but you do want to put up a respectable performance, maintaining a careful canter. Sztylet serves you well, leaping over fallen pines, breathing heavily. You lose yourself to the feeling of the sweat under your cap, the mugginess of the air, how overdressed you are. Breathe in, breathe out. You listen to the thudding of hooves, smell your horse's sweat. As your pulse slows, you find yourself nearly in a dream. You feel like a fool, but you reach out for a butterfly drifting by. Perhaps there is more than one way to feel alive.
Mariana's story of the fornicator maid forced into the convent, her unwillingness to be crushed by the things imposed upon her. You could now understand her willingness to find the love of the Lord and His Son – sinner that she may have been, but who is not one? – anywhere, everywhere, in the sun that would greet her habit, dappling her penitence. It is a good thing to be a prince who will have a horse race with his brother, it is a good thing to be a prince who can notice a little insect. You hope that is the sum of all your meditations, and you offer up an obligatory, spoken aloud: "praise be to God."
By the time you arrive at Uła – merely a large village – Krzysztof's waiting for you by the town well, a few peasants on their knees around him, caps in their hands and heads downturned. "I told them that I knew there's a thief amongst them and that I'm in pursuit," he laughs, before switching to Ruthenian and speaking down into the dirt. "I was joking, children, back to work – though I want the name of the man driving the hay wagon today."
The serfs rise and bow and leave hunched low and diffidently. That's rather cruel, you think, but nevermind that. "So, what," asks Krzysztof, speaking Polish again, "you gave up?"
"Well now, I was doing quite well until the forest came up. I think you tricked me!" you tease. "What was that bit about honor and fairness?"
"Honor comes to the victor, and to a victor who looks upon his men as brothers and treats them as such, a Christian warrior. But no one ever said anything about the means of victory, of survival. But did I cheat?"
You make a face. "No…"
"But I could've if I wanted. Anyways–" he looks over your shoulder. "Who's that?"
A petty noble is riding up; you can tell that straightaway from his modest dyes and well-worn fur hat. "My lords! My lords!" He begins to stammer apologies as he halts his horse.
"What is it?" you ask in unison with your brother. "My lord, the Voivode Stanisław Pac, dispatched me – a letter with the Radziwiłł seal for His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław of Dubinki and Birże."
"For you, eh?" grins Krzysztof. "Must be Father."
You break the seal and read the letter quickly and hungrily. It's brief, to the point – written in his own hand, it seems – and bears a rather simple message: "I'm to meet with him at Wilno." You look up at the blank faces of your brother and the messenger.
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"Odd."
"Indeed," you say, trying to settle a tingling in your stomach. You turn to Krzysztof. "Will you come with me, brother?"
"I cannot," he shakes his head. "The Voivode of Połock has been dying for months now; he's delirious, and so it falls to me to hold this part of the border, lest they take more than just the city they've already got." He sighs. "What a damned shame. Right when I see you again. I suppose you'll have to leave as soon as possible? Perhaps we'll split a bottle of gorzała and pretend to be bumpkins tonight?"
"I consider that a sin, brother," you say flatly.
Krzysztof sucks in his lips. "Well, ehm, of course, yes."
Whatever this is, it seems to be for you alone. Perhaps Septimus will be at Dubinki, at least, and you can see him along the way.
You left Uła and Krzysztof with a too-soon haste; they say a man may only rely on his family, and you hate that you hardly ever get to see your kinfolk. But as for Father… Well, like your brothers, you hadn't seen him since the Frenchman's coronation. However distant he may be, you felt called as ever to be a good son, a good Radziwiłł. He is never to be refused.
It is always a little unnerving to meet with him. Nothing ill has ever come of an audience, but it always means that something is churning. It's a week's ride from Połock Voivodeship, and you waste no time bandying about in folwark houses or meeting amiably with friends of the family.
Father looms in the great hall of the Lower Castle of Wilno, the old home of the Grand Dukes. You find yourself taking him in all over again: he is as tall as Krzysztof and built as solidly, too – were it not for his white hair and snowy beard, one could mistake him for a still-strong man of forty-five, halfway to a giant. You bow before him as a vassal, yet note that there is scarcely anyone around to see it. The servants and retainers must have been called off.
"You honor me, son, and it is good to see you again," he says. "I am told that you are at last finding your legs on the field of battle, as you have in contests of honor and of rhetoric. This pleases me."
For once, people are convinced of your willingness to fight. As much as it almost makes your stomach lurch, you smile. There are few things worse to be on this Earth than a coward. Especially a Radziwiłł coward. They say, under his clothes, Father is spiderwebbed with scars.
"Thank you, Father," you say. You open your mouth–
"You are certainly wondering, 'why have I been called upon?' Your exile is over, son," he gives a little smile. "Welcome home. You see, I am of the opinion that the Frenchman will never return. After all, why would he?"
You nod. "I agree. Waiting till May seems generous."
"Indeed. But many are in denial, hoping against hope. But Radziwiłłowie do not rest, Radziwiłłowie do not wait and see." He crosses his arms. "Do you recall my victory at Czaśniki?"
It was why he wasn't there to say goodbye when you left for France. The war was fierce then. It was a triumph, you're told. "Yes, Father, of course, you routed an army at least thrice the size of your own and…"
"Yes, indeed, I'm not surprised you know the stories. But do you know how?"
Oh. He raises a deferential hand, offering an inkling of softness on his face. A rare thing to see. "It is alright that you don't know; you were abroad not long after. The Muscovites divided themselves into three columns, heading westward, deeper into the homeland, much too early in the season. Their wagons sunk into snowdrifts, hidden ditches. I was leading an advance force – just our horse, the cannon and foot lagging behind. But I did not wait. One by one we took them, and each time they fled like dogs before us, leaving a trail of dead."
He smiles. "A serf dashed their prince-commander's brains out with a carving ax, like some common soldier. A great day, and a great lesson."
"Your skill in battle is legendary, Father," you offer. And it's true. Mikołaj Rudy – 'the Red' – called such not just for his ruddy complexion, perhaps.
"Perhaps, may God forgive me," he mutters, eyes flickering to the ceiling. Piety? There is so little you don't know of him.
"But, so, you're saying there's no time to waste, Father? That we must strike now?"
"Yes. The Walezy camp is discredited and in disorder. We must make our bid for an Imperial candidate – and quickly. I saw the way you spoke at the Confederation, what I have heard of your time in the borderlands is encouraging." He lowers his voice, ever so slightly. "I am entrusting you with a task of significance. Your brothers must remain here: Mikołaj to help me govern, Krzysztof to protect our holdings. You are to find an Imperial candidate at their own court."
Your mind is set alight. A foreign court, foreign customs, foreign people, your German lacking, your task great, to say the least. You betray yourself only with a dry swallow. "Yes, Father. It will be done," you say, careful to show nothing. It shall be a step into the fog, as a ship off into the Indies. At least your return is guaranteed, lest bad water take you.
"Determine whether the Emperor himself is interested, or one of his sons. This shall be a private mission, conducted under our own banner. There's no hiding a Radziwiłł leaving the country, but you are to move with haste and discretion. Kraków hosts your cousin, the Zborowscy, the Prince Konstanty Wasyl's sons. The Princess Anna, as well, though I see no reason why we ought to speak with her. Find men willing to accompany you – they should be in no short supply."
"Yes, Father," you say. "I will not fail you." You cannot. You bow once more.
He nods.
The days fly on the road to Kraków. The swaying pines, sunlit canopies, and blue-skied days are lost to a haze of a worry, of contemplation, of consideration. This dwarfs the weight of your duties at Orsza by far, in your mind, and you lose a little more sleep with each passing day. You pray far beyond your Hours, praying for aid, for clear eyes, for a safe passage, that a godly and skilled new prince be delivered to Crownland and Lithuania alike. And, perhaps, it shall be your hand that unclenches for the twin nations and makes an offer. All in its due time, that is.
By the time that Wawel's red-roofed towers appear high atop their hill, you've developed a bit of plan. You'll have to enlist these noble figures (or not), but you opt to…
[] attempt to recruit a large, impressive entourage.
Bring along everybody willing, everybody belonging to the pro-Habsburg faction. This includes, but is not limited to: the eldest son of Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski – a young fellow named Janusz, who advantageously spent his childhood in Vienna – one or several of the Zborowski brothers, and your cousin, the Prince Mikołaj "Sierotka." Your full retinue of Marszowski, van Gistel, Friar Gosiewski, and Mariana will all come along, as well as everyone's manservants, ladies-in-waiting, valets, even cooks. The goal here is to impress with pomp, fine dress, and to create a impression that a great column of Polonian (you'll permit them calling you that) emissaries are bound for the Austrian court at Vienna. However, the sheer size of your mission will be talk of both the Commonwealth and the Empire, and the abundance of secondary personnel make leaks of information likely.
[] Make this a family affair.
From among the ranking nobles, bring along only your loquacious cousin, Sierotka – however much he irks you, it's said that he possesses the gift of gab when it counts the most. He also represents the late Mikołaj Czarny's line, thus bringing Imperial Princes (for your title *is* of the Empire) representing both Nieśwież and Dubinki into the court of your family's erstwhile benefactors. Only Marszowski and Mariana (van Gistel would rather not meet the Habsburgs for obvious reasons) would come along as well to woo the lordlings and ladies, respectively; it's a shame to leave behind your confessor, but Vienna is Jesuit country. You reckon that the coming of additional dignitaries would both blunt such a gesture, and run the risk of having too many cooks in the kitchen. It also makes it clear that, for now, this is a strictly Radziwiłł venture – perhaps making your family's name more memorable down the line. However, there's always the risk of appearing underwhelming.
[] depart with an ever-so-slight furtiveness.
Bring only yourself, some heralds and servants, Mariana, and Marszowski. Keep things as close to silent as they can be; everybody will know, of course, but putting on airs could enrage the more numerous "Piast" camp, who angle for a Silesian or Transylvanian prince. There's no point in making things difficult at home. Although this will likely underwhelm the Austrians, it also makes clear that this is a noncommittal, informal visit and could therefore break down some of the stateliness of it all. It'll also ensure that not a breath of what was discussed will filter back to the homeland, in all likelihood.
And regarding the pawn, the princess, the aging pearl, the woman who would make or break a would-be king's bid for the throne, the one who rules over herself yet nothing else: Anna Jagiellonka, the last of the old royal line – shall you meet with her?
[] Yes, and make your intentions known.
It's a little bold, but the opportunity found in making an ally of the woman who would legitimize nearly any candidate cannot be understated. Not to mention, she's a good Catholic and, they say, a devotee to the good of the realm.
[] Yes, but keep it light.
It is good to make an acquaintance of the realm's most powerful woman, but there's no need to tell her everything.
[] No.
She doesn't really have a say in anything *truly,* you reckon, even if she's without a guardian. Why speak with a bargaining chip, why risk letting something slip?
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] attempt to recruit a large, impressive entourage.
[X] Yes, and make your intentions known.
Ok, now this is interesting.
As mentioned, the Radziwiłłs are Princes of the Holy Roman Empire (while styling themselves old Ruthenian princes on their home turf for prestige reasons), therefore there are always welcome in Vienna in the Imperial Court, especially being Catholic. Radziwiłłs even took part in Reichstags, the general parliament of the Empire, as is their privilege as Imperial Princes and had many connections throughout the hundreds of German realms. Keep in mind, that many local sovereign Princes of ancient pedigrees were very jealous of the wealth and lands the Radziwiłłs possessed, equal to that of any Elector, despite them being subjects and technically lower in prestige than them.
If going to visit, we should make full use of our wealth, power and position by showing off our vast influence and bringing many important people with us to prove, that we are very serious. Indeed, for such an important mission to be given to a very young noble is a sign of trust our father has in us. Being a castellan, we can also add a somewhat important-sounding office to our great title, since it is of senatorial rank. In order to avoid any hiccups about some castle warden, we may just style ourselves as a Senator.
Anna is the key to the Commonwealth. Any man willing to marry her has one foot in the throne room already, although she is no longer young and well past child bearing age. No wonder, that the historical victor, Prince Bathory was famously avoiding her whenever possible. He respected her of course and showed all do reverence in public, but once night came he would never sleep with her in the same room and should she ever come to visit him, he would immediately leave to sleep somewhere else.
[X] Yes, and make your intentions known.
Ok, now this is interesting.
As mentioned, the Radziwiłłs are Princes of the Holy Roman Empire (while styling themselves old Ruthenian princes on their home turf for prestige reasons), therefore there are always welcome in Vienna in the Imperial Court, especially being Catholic. Radziwiłłs even took part in Reichstags, the general parliament of the Empire, as is their privilege as Imperial Princes and had many connections throughout the hundreds of German realms. Keep in mind, that many local sovereign Princes of ancient pedigrees were very jealous of the wealth and lands the Radziwiłłs possessed, equal to that of any Elector, despite them being subjects and technically lower in prestige than them.
If going to visit, we should make full use of our wealth, power and position by showing off our vast influence and bringing many important people with us to prove, that we are very serious. Indeed, for such an important mission to be given to a very young noble is a sign of trust our father has in us. Being a castellan, we can also add a somewhat important-sounding office to our great title, since it is of senatorial rank. In order to avoid any hiccups about some castle warden, we may just style ourselves as a Senator.
Anna is the key to the Commonwealth. Any man willing to marry her has one foot in the throne room already, although she is no longer young and well past child bearing age. No wonder, that the historical victor, Prince Bathory was famously avoiding her whenever possible. He respected her of course and showed all do reverence in public, but once night came he would never sleep with her in the same room and should she ever come to visit him, he would immediately leave to sleep somewhere else.
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- Location
- United States
[X] Make this a family affair.
[X] No.
[X] No.
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