Princess Mariana Sapieha Radziwiłłowa places a finger to her lips as if shushing someone, but what she's really doing is thinking. Thinking, yes, always thinking. Most men don't see it – including Stanisław half the time – but the young lady is burning brightly. She is alone at last.
This world is a lovely orange, she decides, looking out from the carriage into an autumn grove, standing tall beyond some fresh-fallow fields. She will be in Łomża soon. And the air feels orange, too, even if there's a chill. Oh, God, why couldn't I have been born a merchant's girl or even a serf – let me into the woods, damn it, so I can look up at the canopy and spin till it's all one great circle, rings upon rings. Who cares if I'm so dizzy I fall down?
Mariana sighs. There's no one to talk to, but she doesn't mind it a bit. When does a woman of status ever have the chance to forego her ladies-in-waiting? She's pulled strings so that some little Radziwiłł functionary will be her chaperone, a mouse of a nobleman, really, rather than that buoyant Andrzej Marszowski. She can breathe now, be herself. I am what Stanisław wants me to be – his snooping fox, his pretty vixen. Well, it's an easy role to play, at least.
She smiles, half-bitter, thinking of that one-legged fool she can't help but admire. She thinks him a very genuine man, not a peacock like half the szlachta, but she also knows what he wants: her wits, her sarcasm, her sensuality, his Mariana. He loves me and doesn't know why. She suspects he may wish that he was a wife, so to speak, or a monk, or a peasant; Stanisław just wishes that he wouldn't have to do what he has to do. Serf couples look each other in the eye, pick the lice out of each other's hair, throw pitchers and shoes at each other if they have to, no 'my lord' and 'my lady' with them. "Urszula, how's the weaving?" "I told you, Janek, I'll do it once the cow's milked!" Mariana snorts. That's probably what they're like. Stanisław loves to see strength in others because he needs all the help he can get. Herself, Marszowski, even his own father and brothers – Stanisław Radziwiłł, the admirer, the admirable. She finds him pathetic in a deeply endearing way. Pathetic isn't the right word, she thinks, that's cruel. But I've never met a man so nervy and needy. But then a flash of recognition shoots through her mind, pulling her backwards. Orange! Foxes are– heh, perhaps I'm orange.
Mariana Sapieha realizes that she has no clue who she is, really. She realizes that she's always been something to someone else – some thing, some thing – and that she only comes into herself at rare moments such as these, when there are no eyes on her, when she may ride alone in a carriage. Even sharing a bed with Stanisław ruins it. His hand on her thigh, their legs tangling in a half-sleep, she becomes someone else for him. My name's not even Mariana, she thinks. Lord help me, I think in Polish these days. My name is Maryna. Maryna, she repeats, switching into the language of her mother and father. I am Maryna Sapieha of the Lis, glory to God.
Maryna crosses her arms and begins to think once more. She is once again a pawn: in this case, to remind another woman, much older, that she, too, is a pawn, and always has been, and always will be. Could life be different? Is there such a thing as a free woman? That's an Amazon, or an Indian with bare breasts. Maryna grew up buried in a book, reading of just such strange people. No one was around to tell her no. Father was sixty-four when he had her, and Mother didn't live very long after. I never talk about her, nor Stanisław about his mother. Maryna groans. Stanisław! It's always about Stanisław! Stroking his hair and staring at his stump and climbing atop him to ride him, always giving him what he wants. Maryna wants children, and Stanisław wants them to look like her, act like her, bear her birth-sign – he said it himself. Why is it my master worships *me?* The least he could do is…
When has he ever been in the position to listen? He fawns over his wife, but never has made an effort to do so. Like I'm his favorite hound or a little toy for him, boy-child, to cling to. Stanisław does not call Maryna by her name. They spoke Ruthenian with each other the day they met, and never again. Imagine if Almighty God placed Himself at the feet of His children, asking to learn from them, she thinks.
But men are not God, nor are they gods; Maryna knows this. And still she cannot answer the question of why. Why is it that Eve failed as she did, and why is it that now, through all of creation and time, have men decided that this is cause for skepticism, for hatred, for punishment? Why is it that God, in His power and in His all-consuming wholeness, his sophia, decide that He Himself would be a man? What man has given birth to anything? Maryna crosses herself dutifully, but without real regret for thinking such things. She hates that, even in this moment of quiet, this moment of self, it has circled back to her duties: husband, mothering, servitude. And she wishes she knew that there could be more to think about. With effort, she sets her mind on Franciscus de Vitoria, how he spoke of the New World Indians and how that, inferior as they may be, they possess the ownership of themselves, for God made it so that Indian would rule Indian from the outset of His plan. Was it God or was it Saint Paul that made it so a woman should learn in quietness? Any woman can be seduced, even the first one – as can any man, save for Christ.
The carriage trundles to a halt. Maryna can hear the birds, the wind through the trees. Her chaperone appears at the door and she becomes Princess Mariana once more.
"Your Serene Highness," he says, "we've arrived."
Lady Sapieha could give a damn about the pageantry, the rolled out Persian carpet, the servants and the wine and the fine food – none of that matters. At a feasting table, she cocks her head slightly and takes in the Infanta, sitting at the head of the table.
Not so pretty… Forehead is bulbous, the skin too white (if there can be such a thing), eyes too dark, hair can't decide whether to be blonde or red. She frowns at thinking about her in this way generally, but especially because the so-called spinster princess brings a gravitas with her. That cannot be denied. There are those who, by virtue of their position, are constantly and consistently, unfailingly heard. Infanta Anna would certainly be one such person. But Mariana sees something else, for she has to by virtue of becoming Mariana once more: it's subtle, in the way that people lean in when Anna speaks, for her voice doesn't necessarily project much. They remain leaned in for just a bit too long; they are listening. And not even the most powerful men are necessarily listened to, not all the time.
To Mariana, all the pleasantries and formalities are a blur, a smear across today and a smudge in her memory; it is only after dark that she is granted an audience with the Infanta, one-on-one. Mariana finds her sitting at a desk, surrounded by letters and still in full courtly attire.
"Enter, enter," says Anna, sounding tired, pulling with her hand. "It has been a pleasure, lady princess."
A small chuckle of nervousness from the younger woman. "Is Your Highness joking?"
The Infanta smiles. "That business in the main hall is awfully boring," she says, cracking a little smile. "You detected my lie. But you? I am rather interested in you."
Mariana decides to hang back. "Thank you, Your Highness, I am honored to have such august eyes on me."
"You're young, you're pretty, a good conversationalist, though I could detect your boredom," Anna chuckles. "But I also know why you're here. Don't play coy."
Mariana nods. Honesty shall be what drives things forward, then. "Indeed, I come as a representative of the family, on behalf of my husband, His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław, and his father, His Serene Highness the Prince Mikołaj, the one they call the Red," she says.
"And these men must reckon that this is a woman's job? Or that you, lady princess, would somehow soften me?"
"Maybe, Your Highness," says Mariana. "I more thought that it would be because when two women talk, they never think it could be anything serious. It's a safeguard, of sorts."
"Indeed," says Anna, looking as intrigued as she does understanding, her smile returning. "We are merely speaking of the trends in dresses and caps, or about men with broad shoulders. Surely, some will understand the ruse, but…"
Mariana laughs quietly, breathily. She is suppressing her nerves. "I suppose we ought to unwrap the bandage, then. I have come to inquire about the prospect of marriage between Your Highness and the Archduke Maciej."
The Infanta removes her cap and sweeps a hand over her taut, tied-back hair. She hums. "Well, why would I want to do that, lady princess?"
[] "Because he will prove easy to control, Your Highness."
Straight to the point.
[] "Because Prince Batory is too old to treat you with respect, Your Highness."
The man may prove too formidable, too wily.
[] "Because the realm needs an educated, wise ruler; that would be you, Your Highness."
Leave it to implication.
[] write-in.
Phrased as a sentence. Recall that you're playing the Princess at the moment; be sure to roleplay accordingly.
