Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Rolen von Keng
Sleeping Green Bear
- Location
- The Wilderness
[X] The Baron von Dietrichstein.
[X] Your father and brothers
[X] Your father and brothers
XXXVIII-II. November 8, 1575. Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
[x] Your father and brothers.
You direct the men carrying your sedan chair to head for the Radziwiłł pavilion, its yellow-black standard peeking over the tent-tops belonging to lesser men, deep within the camp.
Father, Septimus, Krzysztof, and some swarthy lads stand in front of the tent; the two of them give you a wave, trying and failing to avoid staring at your stump. It's alright – you're getting used to that. But, oh, damn it, who are they…
"Ave, Ajax!" calls out Krzysztof, earning a side-eye from Septimus. "And to think that Grandfather was called Hercules! Our family's full of heroes." You slap at the air: cut that out, brother.
Your retainers help you out of the chair and onto your crutches. You offer up each of the men a somewhat terse, fraternal, one-armed hug. "Forgive me," you say, looking at the two young fellows, "but I can't say I recognize you, sirs."
They look at each other, and then back at you. One grins; the other looks flustered. Krzysztof snorts, Septimus shakes his head and, you think – perhaps, maybe, you're not sure – father might even be smiling under his great gray-white beard. That's odd. "What?" you ask. They must be brothers. They look alike: dark hair and eyes, tall foreheads, gracile limbs – wait a moment!
"You don't recognize your own cousins, eh?" teases Krzysztof.
"Oh! Oh!" Your jaw drops – Albrycht and Stanisław! Sierotka's little brothers. They formally introduce themselves, their voices three-quarters to manhood. Neither can be older than seventeen or eighteen – you don't quite recall their exact ages – but they were about thigh-high, or perhaps a pinch taller, when you left for France back in '65. "Dear cousins!"
"We're here as representatives of our elder brother, of course," explains Albrycht. "Though we were merely meant to tag along. I'm afraid he's been struck with some melancholia, and left for Nieśwież two nights ago. No convincing him otherwise; he's got it in his head that we're bound to lose."
You frown. "That's a shame," you say, recalling your own struggles, if they ever really ceased. "He seemed so chipper when I last saw him. But, God is with us, the Holy Church is with us." Your brothers shift from foot to foot; Father remains stock-still. Like Sierotka himself, Albrycht and Stanisław, too, have abandoned the heresy of their father – the same heresy that grips your closest relatives. Both you and they tend to avoid the topic of confessional inclinations, but it really just slipped out. You turn to Father and your brothers: "and it's for the good of the realm; none can deny it."
"That's right," Krzysztof clears his throat and chuckles.
"We may just be able to reverse the concessions of the Union," rumbles Father. "Reclaim our lost southern provinces."
"The Crownlanders will eat us alive if not," agrees Septimus. "And the Ruthenians would chafe under them." He lowers his voice a little. "Things were fine and fair before old Zygmunt August decided to punish us for our so-called obstinacy."
"The guilt is mine," says Father with a solemn nod. "I thought I could stand up to him; I failed. But we'll get it all back."
"God willing, sir," pipes up young Stanisław. "That Domitian to our homeland, thief of–"
"Don't go waxing poetic now, little brother," smiles Albrycht, giving him a little backhand to the upper arm. "This one's always nose-deep in a–"
"Enough of that. Act like princes." In the absence of Czarny, may God forgive his wayward confession, Rudy will become the new paterfamilias – even if Sierotka is meant to be the young patriarch of his branch.
"Yessir," reply the youngsters.
You must ask: "so – you two intend to vote on the behalf of Mikołaj Krzysztof?" you ask, careful not to call him Sierotka.
"That appears to be our lot," nods Stanisław.
"And we shall not let the family down!" cries Albrycht, sanguine.
How funny it is that all families are different, and yet all still the same. Your two cousins have barely talked, and yet you can already see it. In Stanisław there's, well, Stanisław – you, that is, perhaps with a bit of Septimus mixed in – while Albrycht clearly is the Krzysztof here. As for Sierotka, so sadly absent? He's his own breed. What kind of man walks out of a Sejm, especially one so powerful?
I should check up on the poor man once I'm back in Lithuania. Lithuania! Your mind is suddenly on Dubinki Castle. Home. The halls you played in. It's been a year since you've been home, been to Wilno, that inviting city of youth. You remember why you're here: family, homeland, honor, victory – in descending order.
Blink. "...isn't that right, brother?" Krzysztof claps you on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry?"
Septimus the Silent chuckles, speaking at last: "wasn't listening, eh?"
You shake your head, as if trying to get something out of it. "My apologies. It's just – it's good to see my kin all in one place. If only your brother was here," you say to Albrycht and Stanisław.
"Straighten up, all of you," says Father, disregarding your flash of tenderness. He doesn't seem angry, or even frustrated, but from his height and build alone he commands – even Septimus and Krzysztof, both pushing thirty, obey like loyal serfs or soldiers. "People are watching. You can play and laugh like boys in private some other time." He snorts. "But let us have our breakfast. The day is newborn young."
The six of you sit around a circular table in the center of the Radziwiłł pavilion, having just finished a prayer. You half-heartedly nibble on some smoked sausage, mind utterly elsewhere, even though you've hardly eaten since early yesterday – and no meat since Thursday, of course. The conversation is terse; there doesn't exist a climate of fear (not in your mind, at least, perhaps the two youths are nervous) but there is a coldness. You look at Albrycht and Stanisław. "First Sejm, yes?" you ask.
They nod. "Well, for matters like this – I think my Father is correct. It's rather simple. Look good, vote properly and proudly."
Septimus cocks his head slightly. "But you're such a politicker, brother."
Father's steely, dark eyes meet yours. "Yes. Don't downplay yourself. You're the reason Archduke Maciej is our candidate at all." You can't tell what exactly he means by that, and your stomach drops slightly. He turns his attention to the young men from Nieśwież. "My youngest is a phlegmatic, but knows when to release the cholera, the sanguine humor." You think that's an endorsement of sorts, and you breathe a little sigh of relief. He smiles – that's unprecedented, twice in an hour or so?! – "And my eldest carries the melancholy and my middle is nothing but cholera."
Krzysztof laughs; Septimus grins half-sheepishly, half-wolfishly, and looks down at his food. You can never quite tell what he's thinking, and you reckon that means he takes after Father.
But – what is going on? Father seems jarringly soft today; he leans back in his chair and looks skyward. "It's a strange thing: out of my three boys, all gifts from God, only Stanisław I permitted to study abroad. And now my late cousin's Stanisław is equally studious. You know, lads, I know very little Latin – and have you seen my penmanship? And yet I sit before you as Grand Chancellor of Lithuania, erstwhile Grand Hetman – if the Lord wills it, our victorious Archduke will grant that distinction to me again." He scratches at his beard. "Oh, what am I trying to say…"
Nobody wishes to answer the great dynast. Knives scrape on plates. Father places a hand to his chin. You're not sure how much time passes, but it's Septimus who breaks the silence. "That our youngest has distinguished himself? And yet a man can do so without seeing the world, without knowing Latin and Greek and the rest?"
You wave your hand. "Oh, please," you say, "you're all giving me much more honor than I deserve–"
Father suddenly pounds the table. "You'll wear your honor for the rest of your life, Stanisław. By not accepting such, you dishonor yourself." Krzysztof nods in concurrence; Albrycht and his brother appear slack-jawed. "All of you are honorable young men. All of you. Mikołaj," he gestures to Septimus, "what a bright mind within you. Let it out. You're the eldest." Next up: "Krzysztof, you've yet to lead men in great number, but I fully expect you to outdo even my victories. And as for you two," he points a finger in-between Albrycht and Stanisław, "you two had a great man for a father. Do right by his name. Especially when your eldest brother… cannot always handle his responsibilities." He clears his throat. "I see you five as soldiers of something great and old; I am merely the veteran of the bunch. Young soldiers listen to old ones should they wish to survive, and indeed I am your captain, colonel, and hetman. But you all are exceptional. So, act like it. Radziwiłłowie."
A muttering of thanks spreads amongst the youth of the table, yourself included. What's going on in that iron mind of his, to make him so sentimental? You suppose it could be that he's in his sixty-third year. He was so fearsome when you were a boy. "Bóg nam radzi," you mutter the motto, the battle-cry.
Bóg nam radzi, the others repeat. We've got an election to win.
The assembly gathers in the central "courtyard" of the Sejm camp by the time the sky is turning blue. You sit on a lower tier of some wooden bleachers erected for the senators: as Castellan of Orsza, you rank low in the order of precedence, and so are among the closest to the groundlings. The Archbishop-Interrex, meanwhile, presides from a lofty grandstand, dressed resplendently in the robes of his office. He's flanked by the chief ministers and ecclesiastics of the realm, the castellans of the great cities and all the voivodes – Father is among them, as are some of the Zborowscy, Shushing spreads through the crowd as his wavering voice – a strong voice, but an old man's – calls out over the quieting din. It must be quite a sight from up there: at least ten-thousand men stretching in all directions. Where the trees have not been cut down, men have climbed them to better watch.
"Lords of our Republic, temporal and spiritual, the twin swords of the militia of Almighty God," he begins, "we gather here on this day before our Lord and our lands to exercise the sacred right of the free election. Let us pray." Thousands of caps are removed in unison, and thousands of heads lower.
He switches to Latin. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit – the Trinity ever-reigning – bless your humble servants with clarity of mind and of conscience for what we are about to do. Deliver to us our David, our Solomon, our Hezekiah; grant us a King of noble spirit and strong conviction, let him lay low the Eastern Antichrist and lift up the Twin Nations. This we beg of you. Amen."
Amen. Amen indeed.
The senators cast the first votes, and you patiently await your turn, dozens deep into the order of precedence. You rise on one leg, refusing your crutches and relying on your balance, and proudly declare for the Archduke, to the expected cheers and boos from the expected parties.
When the last senator votes, some mild chaos ensues as the throng begins to move en masse. Special attention is paid to the magnates who happen to somehow lack a senatorial office – like young Albrycht and Stanisław, for example – and the crowd tends to part for these great men, hushes descending to hear who they declare for.
Everybody voted for exactly who you'd expect them to have voted for – mercifully, it seems that the local, Masovian gołota and yeomen-szlachta are leaning toward the Archduke, but it's genuinely hard to tell, what with the thousands and thousands of men casting their votes, jostling each other and swearing loudly, trying to appear before the Interrex and your fellow senators to make their intentions known. The whole process takes up most of the daylight.
By late afternoon? An utterly unsurprising deadlock. Zamoyski, his right-hand man Sienicki, and most of the Protestants stand for Batory, though the mighty Zborowski family has (seemingly acrimoniously) split in two. Meanwhile, your fellow Lithuanians, the Ruthenians, the bishops, and the Catholic magnates voted for the Archduke.
You convene back at the Radziwiłł pavilion with Father, your brothers, and your cousins. Spirits are relatively high. You've got a moment or three before you all formally sit down to confer amongst yourselves.
What to do, or what to say?
[] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
Sometimes, you think she may be better at *this* than you are.
[] Go to Sir Marszowski for a word of advice.
He's not the politicking type, but his instincts almost never fail him, you feel.
[] Prepare to advocate for the Zamoyski-Radziwiłł wedding, Sierotka be damned.
Proposing such a lucrative offer to Zamoyski – prestige for the new-rich lord, a fat dowry, and a peacekeeping arrangement – could disrupt the entire Batory camp, should he flip.
[] Propose reaching out to the Habsburg delegation.
See if any last-second promises or bribes can be arranged.
[] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
Karnkowski was the only Catholic ecclesiastic to affix his seal to the Confederation of Warszawa, and almost faced excommunication for it. This has earned him respect from nearly everybody but the most hardline supporters of the Holy Church. Using a middleman is always frustrating, but collusion with Karnkowski, should it be detected, would perhaps be less damaging than speaking to the Archbishop-Interrex.
[] Propose reaching out to the clergy, going directly to the Archbishop-Interrex.
The Catholic clergy is well-whipped to the Habsburg camp. Flipping the Interrex himself, though? If push comes to shove, a unilateral declaration could be declared by persuasion and intimidation in the event the deadlock continues.
You direct the men carrying your sedan chair to head for the Radziwiłł pavilion, its yellow-black standard peeking over the tent-tops belonging to lesser men, deep within the camp.
Father, Septimus, Krzysztof, and some swarthy lads stand in front of the tent; the two of them give you a wave, trying and failing to avoid staring at your stump. It's alright – you're getting used to that. But, oh, damn it, who are they…
"Ave, Ajax!" calls out Krzysztof, earning a side-eye from Septimus. "And to think that Grandfather was called Hercules! Our family's full of heroes." You slap at the air: cut that out, brother.
Your retainers help you out of the chair and onto your crutches. You offer up each of the men a somewhat terse, fraternal, one-armed hug. "Forgive me," you say, looking at the two young fellows, "but I can't say I recognize you, sirs."
They look at each other, and then back at you. One grins; the other looks flustered. Krzysztof snorts, Septimus shakes his head and, you think – perhaps, maybe, you're not sure – father might even be smiling under his great gray-white beard. That's odd. "What?" you ask. They must be brothers. They look alike: dark hair and eyes, tall foreheads, gracile limbs – wait a moment!
"You don't recognize your own cousins, eh?" teases Krzysztof.
"Oh! Oh!" Your jaw drops – Albrycht and Stanisław! Sierotka's little brothers. They formally introduce themselves, their voices three-quarters to manhood. Neither can be older than seventeen or eighteen – you don't quite recall their exact ages – but they were about thigh-high, or perhaps a pinch taller, when you left for France back in '65. "Dear cousins!"
"We're here as representatives of our elder brother, of course," explains Albrycht. "Though we were merely meant to tag along. I'm afraid he's been struck with some melancholia, and left for Nieśwież two nights ago. No convincing him otherwise; he's got it in his head that we're bound to lose."
You frown. "That's a shame," you say, recalling your own struggles, if they ever really ceased. "He seemed so chipper when I last saw him. But, God is with us, the Holy Church is with us." Your brothers shift from foot to foot; Father remains stock-still. Like Sierotka himself, Albrycht and Stanisław, too, have abandoned the heresy of their father – the same heresy that grips your closest relatives. Both you and they tend to avoid the topic of confessional inclinations, but it really just slipped out. You turn to Father and your brothers: "and it's for the good of the realm; none can deny it."
"That's right," Krzysztof clears his throat and chuckles.
"We may just be able to reverse the concessions of the Union," rumbles Father. "Reclaim our lost southern provinces."
"The Crownlanders will eat us alive if not," agrees Septimus. "And the Ruthenians would chafe under them." He lowers his voice a little. "Things were fine and fair before old Zygmunt August decided to punish us for our so-called obstinacy."
"The guilt is mine," says Father with a solemn nod. "I thought I could stand up to him; I failed. But we'll get it all back."
"God willing, sir," pipes up young Stanisław. "That Domitian to our homeland, thief of–"
"Don't go waxing poetic now, little brother," smiles Albrycht, giving him a little backhand to the upper arm. "This one's always nose-deep in a–"
"Enough of that. Act like princes." In the absence of Czarny, may God forgive his wayward confession, Rudy will become the new paterfamilias – even if Sierotka is meant to be the young patriarch of his branch.
"Yessir," reply the youngsters.
You must ask: "so – you two intend to vote on the behalf of Mikołaj Krzysztof?" you ask, careful not to call him Sierotka.
"That appears to be our lot," nods Stanisław.
"And we shall not let the family down!" cries Albrycht, sanguine.
How funny it is that all families are different, and yet all still the same. Your two cousins have barely talked, and yet you can already see it. In Stanisław there's, well, Stanisław – you, that is, perhaps with a bit of Septimus mixed in – while Albrycht clearly is the Krzysztof here. As for Sierotka, so sadly absent? He's his own breed. What kind of man walks out of a Sejm, especially one so powerful?
I should check up on the poor man once I'm back in Lithuania. Lithuania! Your mind is suddenly on Dubinki Castle. Home. The halls you played in. It's been a year since you've been home, been to Wilno, that inviting city of youth. You remember why you're here: family, homeland, honor, victory – in descending order.
Blink. "...isn't that right, brother?" Krzysztof claps you on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry?"
Septimus the Silent chuckles, speaking at last: "wasn't listening, eh?"
You shake your head, as if trying to get something out of it. "My apologies. It's just – it's good to see my kin all in one place. If only your brother was here," you say to Albrycht and Stanisław.
"Straighten up, all of you," says Father, disregarding your flash of tenderness. He doesn't seem angry, or even frustrated, but from his height and build alone he commands – even Septimus and Krzysztof, both pushing thirty, obey like loyal serfs or soldiers. "People are watching. You can play and laugh like boys in private some other time." He snorts. "But let us have our breakfast. The day is newborn young."
The six of you sit around a circular table in the center of the Radziwiłł pavilion, having just finished a prayer. You half-heartedly nibble on some smoked sausage, mind utterly elsewhere, even though you've hardly eaten since early yesterday – and no meat since Thursday, of course. The conversation is terse; there doesn't exist a climate of fear (not in your mind, at least, perhaps the two youths are nervous) but there is a coldness. You look at Albrycht and Stanisław. "First Sejm, yes?" you ask.
They nod. "Well, for matters like this – I think my Father is correct. It's rather simple. Look good, vote properly and proudly."
Septimus cocks his head slightly. "But you're such a politicker, brother."
Father's steely, dark eyes meet yours. "Yes. Don't downplay yourself. You're the reason Archduke Maciej is our candidate at all." You can't tell what exactly he means by that, and your stomach drops slightly. He turns his attention to the young men from Nieśwież. "My youngest is a phlegmatic, but knows when to release the cholera, the sanguine humor." You think that's an endorsement of sorts, and you breathe a little sigh of relief. He smiles – that's unprecedented, twice in an hour or so?! – "And my eldest carries the melancholy and my middle is nothing but cholera."
Krzysztof laughs; Septimus grins half-sheepishly, half-wolfishly, and looks down at his food. You can never quite tell what he's thinking, and you reckon that means he takes after Father.
But – what is going on? Father seems jarringly soft today; he leans back in his chair and looks skyward. "It's a strange thing: out of my three boys, all gifts from God, only Stanisław I permitted to study abroad. And now my late cousin's Stanisław is equally studious. You know, lads, I know very little Latin – and have you seen my penmanship? And yet I sit before you as Grand Chancellor of Lithuania, erstwhile Grand Hetman – if the Lord wills it, our victorious Archduke will grant that distinction to me again." He scratches at his beard. "Oh, what am I trying to say…"
Nobody wishes to answer the great dynast. Knives scrape on plates. Father places a hand to his chin. You're not sure how much time passes, but it's Septimus who breaks the silence. "That our youngest has distinguished himself? And yet a man can do so without seeing the world, without knowing Latin and Greek and the rest?"
You wave your hand. "Oh, please," you say, "you're all giving me much more honor than I deserve–"
Father suddenly pounds the table. "You'll wear your honor for the rest of your life, Stanisław. By not accepting such, you dishonor yourself." Krzysztof nods in concurrence; Albrycht and his brother appear slack-jawed. "All of you are honorable young men. All of you. Mikołaj," he gestures to Septimus, "what a bright mind within you. Let it out. You're the eldest." Next up: "Krzysztof, you've yet to lead men in great number, but I fully expect you to outdo even my victories. And as for you two," he points a finger in-between Albrycht and Stanisław, "you two had a great man for a father. Do right by his name. Especially when your eldest brother… cannot always handle his responsibilities." He clears his throat. "I see you five as soldiers of something great and old; I am merely the veteran of the bunch. Young soldiers listen to old ones should they wish to survive, and indeed I am your captain, colonel, and hetman. But you all are exceptional. So, act like it. Radziwiłłowie."
A muttering of thanks spreads amongst the youth of the table, yourself included. What's going on in that iron mind of his, to make him so sentimental? You suppose it could be that he's in his sixty-third year. He was so fearsome when you were a boy. "Bóg nam radzi," you mutter the motto, the battle-cry.
Bóg nam radzi, the others repeat. We've got an election to win.
The assembly gathers in the central "courtyard" of the Sejm camp by the time the sky is turning blue. You sit on a lower tier of some wooden bleachers erected for the senators: as Castellan of Orsza, you rank low in the order of precedence, and so are among the closest to the groundlings. The Archbishop-Interrex, meanwhile, presides from a lofty grandstand, dressed resplendently in the robes of his office. He's flanked by the chief ministers and ecclesiastics of the realm, the castellans of the great cities and all the voivodes – Father is among them, as are some of the Zborowscy, Shushing spreads through the crowd as his wavering voice – a strong voice, but an old man's – calls out over the quieting din. It must be quite a sight from up there: at least ten-thousand men stretching in all directions. Where the trees have not been cut down, men have climbed them to better watch.
"Lords of our Republic, temporal and spiritual, the twin swords of the militia of Almighty God," he begins, "we gather here on this day before our Lord and our lands to exercise the sacred right of the free election. Let us pray." Thousands of caps are removed in unison, and thousands of heads lower.
He switches to Latin. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit – the Trinity ever-reigning – bless your humble servants with clarity of mind and of conscience for what we are about to do. Deliver to us our David, our Solomon, our Hezekiah; grant us a King of noble spirit and strong conviction, let him lay low the Eastern Antichrist and lift up the Twin Nations. This we beg of you. Amen."
Amen. Amen indeed.
The senators cast the first votes, and you patiently await your turn, dozens deep into the order of precedence. You rise on one leg, refusing your crutches and relying on your balance, and proudly declare for the Archduke, to the expected cheers and boos from the expected parties.
When the last senator votes, some mild chaos ensues as the throng begins to move en masse. Special attention is paid to the magnates who happen to somehow lack a senatorial office – like young Albrycht and Stanisław, for example – and the crowd tends to part for these great men, hushes descending to hear who they declare for.
Everybody voted for exactly who you'd expect them to have voted for – mercifully, it seems that the local, Masovian gołota and yeomen-szlachta are leaning toward the Archduke, but it's genuinely hard to tell, what with the thousands and thousands of men casting their votes, jostling each other and swearing loudly, trying to appear before the Interrex and your fellow senators to make their intentions known. The whole process takes up most of the daylight.
By late afternoon? An utterly unsurprising deadlock. Zamoyski, his right-hand man Sienicki, and most of the Protestants stand for Batory, though the mighty Zborowski family has (seemingly acrimoniously) split in two. Meanwhile, your fellow Lithuanians, the Ruthenians, the bishops, and the Catholic magnates voted for the Archduke.
You convene back at the Radziwiłł pavilion with Father, your brothers, and your cousins. Spirits are relatively high. You've got a moment or three before you all formally sit down to confer amongst yourselves.
What to do, or what to say?
[] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
Sometimes, you think she may be better at *this* than you are.
[] Go to Sir Marszowski for a word of advice.
He's not the politicking type, but his instincts almost never fail him, you feel.
[] Prepare to advocate for the Zamoyski-Radziwiłł wedding, Sierotka be damned.
Proposing such a lucrative offer to Zamoyski – prestige for the new-rich lord, a fat dowry, and a peacekeeping arrangement – could disrupt the entire Batory camp, should he flip.
[] Propose reaching out to the Habsburg delegation.
See if any last-second promises or bribes can be arranged.
[] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
Karnkowski was the only Catholic ecclesiastic to affix his seal to the Confederation of Warszawa, and almost faced excommunication for it. This has earned him respect from nearly everybody but the most hardline supporters of the Holy Church. Using a middleman is always frustrating, but collusion with Karnkowski, should it be detected, would perhaps be less damaging than speaking to the Archbishop-Interrex.
[] Propose reaching out to the clergy, going directly to the Archbishop-Interrex.
The Catholic clergy is well-whipped to the Habsburg camp. Flipping the Interrex himself, though? If push comes to shove, a unilateral declaration could be declared by persuasion and intimidation in the event the deadlock continues.
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- Pronouns
- He
This was a really nice moment, like probably this is the most united the family has been in years, and the situation is sort of make-or-break for the future, nice as always rolman
[] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
This one is like the base state of the mindset of Stanislaw
But I am for because is a small step for a large journey that it seems this election
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
A fine display and a good read indeed.
I would also like to point out, that there were surely other candidates for the election, like the King of Sweden, the Grand Duke of Muscovy (not Tsar, for that title is not recognized by the Commonwealth) and probably a few other foreign princes, yet nothing is mentioned about them, implying that they have absolutely no backing, which is a bit hard to believe (especially in the case of John III Vasa, who is married to a Jagiellon). Securing the votes of all lesser candidates was a crucial part of the election process.
Remember, that Zamoyski is yet to unleash his masterstroke, that won Bathory the election: proposing, that Anna be elected as King with Bathory as her consort. I have doubts, if young Maciej would agree to marry a woman a couple of decades older, than him.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
Karnkowski is a good choice for an intermediary and while we could talk to Uchański directly, being Catholic, he will still see us as part of the Radziwiłł faction, which is mostly Protestant, especially with Sierotka leaving the Sejm. He was the head of the Catholic branch of the house and without him, everyone present is part of the opposing faction. We all have a common goal and that is a Habsburg on the throne.
And Podlasie, vel Podlachia. It was also taken away from Lithuania, along with Ukraine.
I would also like to point out, that there were surely other candidates for the election, like the King of Sweden, the Grand Duke of Muscovy (not Tsar, for that title is not recognized by the Commonwealth) and probably a few other foreign princes, yet nothing is mentioned about them, implying that they have absolutely no backing, which is a bit hard to believe (especially in the case of John III Vasa, who is married to a Jagiellon). Securing the votes of all lesser candidates was a crucial part of the election process.
Remember, that Zamoyski is yet to unleash his masterstroke, that won Bathory the election: proposing, that Anna be elected as King with Bathory as her consort. I have doubts, if young Maciej would agree to marry a woman a couple of decades older, than him.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
Karnkowski is a good choice for an intermediary and while we could talk to Uchański directly, being Catholic, he will still see us as part of the Radziwiłł faction, which is mostly Protestant, especially with Sierotka leaving the Sejm. He was the head of the Catholic branch of the house and without him, everyone present is part of the opposing faction. We all have a common goal and that is a Habsburg on the throne.
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So, our options are:
Pull a wildcard (cunning but brutal).
Pull a wildcard (brutal but cunning).
Put our biggest ace on the table on the first round of negotiations.
Wrestle for the loyalty of Zamoyski's base, the golota, with Habsburg money.
Play the referees (not risky).
Play the referees (risky).
Too early to reach for the wildcards and playing our ace so soon might made Zamoyski think we're desperate, so those options are out for me.
Playing the referees will only help us if we continue to have a deadlock, but that depends on if the minor nobility remains undecided. Zamoyski will probably try to win them over too, since they are the base of his support.
I'll vote for Habsburg bribes, but only tentatively:
[] Propose reaching out to the Habsburg delegation.
Edit:
Changed my mind. Play the long game or redefine our situation.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
[X] Go to Sir Marszowski for a word of advice.
[X] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
Pull a wildcard (cunning but brutal).
Pull a wildcard (brutal but cunning).
Put our biggest ace on the table on the first round of negotiations.
Wrestle for the loyalty of Zamoyski's base, the golota, with Habsburg money.
Play the referees (not risky).
Play the referees (risky).
Too early to reach for the wildcards and playing our ace so soon might made Zamoyski think we're desperate, so those options are out for me.
Playing the referees will only help us if we continue to have a deadlock, but that depends on if the minor nobility remains undecided. Zamoyski will probably try to win them over too, since they are the base of his support.
I'll vote for Habsburg bribes, but only tentatively:
[] Propose reaching out to the Habsburg delegation.
Edit:
Changed my mind. Play the long game or redefine our situation.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
[X] Go to Sir Marszowski for a word of advice.
[X] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
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Theaxofwar
Definitely not a Bunny Cat in disguise.
- Location
- Standing right behind you
[X] If only she were here… What would Mariana do?
- Location
- United States
Thank you my friend! Good to be back in the saddle.
I readily confess that for narrative purposes I've narrowed it down into a head-to-head thing -- leave it to the American to make everything two-party
. Womp womp. I justify it to myself by imagining Matthias being such a huge giant pick-me boy, so willing to do anything and everything for the throne, to really take it lying down if he must -- and openly too -- that the Habsburg faction is receiving more support than they did OTL, forcing the Swedish camp (the Protestants, mainly) to Batory as a consolidation thing. After all, conspiratorial Catholics did suspect ole Stefan of being a secret Calvinist. During the last election, I did mention Ivan the Terrible being an option, but framed him more as a half-ironic protest vote on the part of the Ruthenians who had been shifted from GDL to the Crown as part of the Union of the Lublin.This, on the other hand, I confess to overlooking! Although I did always know this, which kind of makes it sting more that I forgot. I need to dig around, but poor 18-year-old Matthias has consented at some point (I'd need to poke around to find it but the very short rehab cafeteria breakfast time looms!) to marrying Anna, and to remember Anna's position, "Just Ladies Talking" gets the point across, I feel.
You're a gentleman and a scholar, Sertorius, thanks as ever! Remind me to send you my thesis on the Tumult of Thorn when it's done hehe
And thanks to everybody generally for sticking with SDN through all three years, through the good times of daily posts and the bad times of disappearances! Love you all.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Cool, whatever makes you feel comfortable.I readily confess that for narrative purposes I've narrowed it down into a head-to-head thing -- leave it to the American to make everything two-party
Oh, that sly fox Zamoyski didn't propose this on the first day. When there was a deadlock between Bathory and the Habsburg, he withdrew Bathory's candidacy and presented Anna as an alternative (she is a Jagiellon after all and a ward of the state), with the Transylvanian Prince as her husband, thus securing his election in a roundabout way.
Thank you, that's really nice of you. I'll be sure to read it. The very fact, that you picked such a niche setting for your Quest fills my heart with joy.
Hmm. The Archbishop-Interrex is an extreme. It was a route the pro-Habsburg camp took that didn't go well in the OTL I believe(correct me if I'm wrong).
The more moderate bishop is a less risky option whilst still attempting to sway the camp.
I'm not confident in either of those, but as someone stated earlier. It'd be a bit early to toss in the Zamoyski-Radziwill Marriage to become something to either win Zamoyski over(doubtful) or more likely, cause chaos in his faction to sway the vote.
But, of these options, I'd take the Karnkowski, and later on unleash the Zamoyski-Radziwill Marriage when the time is right to attempt to tug the rug out from the Pro-Bathory Faction.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
The more moderate bishop is a less risky option whilst still attempting to sway the camp.
I'm not confident in either of those, but as someone stated earlier. It'd be a bit early to toss in the Zamoyski-Radziwill Marriage to become something to either win Zamoyski over(doubtful) or more likely, cause chaos in his faction to sway the vote.
But, of these options, I'd take the Karnkowski, and later on unleash the Zamoyski-Radziwill Marriage when the time is right to attempt to tug the rug out from the Pro-Bathory Faction.
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
DamnedAeons 187
An Ally of Convenience is an Enemy of Opportunity
- Location
- Texas
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
KnightofTempest
The Man who would be King
- Location
- Chicago
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
On the one hand, buddying up to the Church when our political reputation has been built on being Mister Religious Tolerance may lose us votes.
On the other, this has a better chance of succeeding in enough numbers to swing things than trying to get more out of the Hapsburgs.
On the one hand, buddying up to the Church when our political reputation has been built on being Mister Religious Tolerance may lose us votes.
On the other, this has a better chance of succeeding in enough numbers to swing things than trying to get more out of the Hapsburgs.
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Oopsie Alert Regarding Bishop Karnkowski
- Location
- United States
Completely got turned around -- I didn't mean Stanisław Karnkowski, who was actually pretty conservative (though a Batory supporter for some reason) and ultimately became a pretty significant leader of the Counter-Reformation in the PLC, I actually meant Bishop Franciszek Krasiński of Kraków.
This changes nothing except for a name tbh, so nobody be confused when the vote said Karnkowski but now it's Krasiński. But I wanted to let you all know. I'm especially pissed because I made the same mistake in an informational footnote in my goddamn thesis. ack! need to fix that. I hate being wrong about stuff.
Update imminent!
This changes nothing except for a name tbh, so nobody be confused when the vote said Karnkowski but now it's Krasiński. But I wanted to let you all know. I'm especially pissed because I made the same mistake in an informational footnote in my goddamn thesis. ack! need to fix that. I hate being wrong about stuff.
Update imminent!
XXXVIII-III. November 8, 1575. Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
[X] Propose reaching out to the clergy, using the moderate Bishop (not!!!) Stanisław Karnkowski as an intermediary.
You have an idea. You know that Father and your brothers will surely bristle at it – and your conscience will, too – but, in your mind, it must be done: the groundwork must be laid among the clergy for declaring a Habsburg king with the explicit backing of Mother Church and, by extension, the Lord. Of course, the Catholic churchmen will vote near-unanimously for the Archduke, no doubt, but if no decision can be reached among the secular lords? Let them turn to their confessors and parish priests and bishops for guidance, and let those men pronounce loudly who the candidate of God is. And, of course, if it truly comes to it: the Archbishop-Interrex may make a declaration all by himself, and the Papal Nuncio will back him on the behalf of Holy Father. The Senat may be half-Protestant, but the voting throngs that fill the muddy lanes of the Sejm camp are not.
But going straight to the Archbishop or the Nuncio would be too loud, much too loud. You've got the perfect candidate in mind, perhaps the most tolerant and humanistic of all the Polish clergy: Bishop Franciszek Krasiński of mighty Kraków, a powerful man with a powerful diocese, the sole spiritual lord to affix his seal to the Confederation nearly three years ago. Let him be an intermediary; meeting with him will soften any blow struck by one of the Catholic Radziwiłłowie cavorting about with a bishop.
Father begrudgingly accepts. Time to get to work.
A cloudy sky replaced the brilliant sunrise at some early point during the day's voting – by now, an autumn overcast reigns, darkening and darkening as dusk approaches. You're carried in your sedan chair to the de facto meeting place of the clergy: in and around the senatorial benches, and the Archbishop's grandstand. You appear before the throng of cassocked or robed men, their golden chains and white-gold threads rendered dull by the fading daylight.
A coughing Sir Marszowski steps out to address the mass of ecclesiastics, their heads long since turned to watch you be carried in. God, he's just getting skinnier and skinnier, you think to yourself, noticing Marszowski's trousers are becoming, how much thinner his reddish hair is. He clears his throat. "His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł of Dubinki and Birże, of Trąby arms, humbly requests a private audience with His Excellency the Bishop Franciszek Krasiński of Kraków!"
A bearded man of about fifty, as pale and hollow-cheeked and sickly-looking as your old fencing master, gently pushes his way to the fore, shuffling somewhat. He wears a plain grey, woolen cassock; if it wasn't for his many-ringed fingers, noticeable even at a distance, you could mistake him for a simple country curate. He gives you a raised hand and a nod as he strides before you. "Let me down," you say to your attendants.
You're handed your crutches as your men gingerly help you to the ground, and you bow as deeply as your predicament can allow you to before such an august man of God. "Your Excellency, you honor me."
"It is a shared sensation, then, Your Serene Highness," he smiles. "It is always a pleasure to speak with a young man who has seen the path of righteousness and turned towards it of his own will, who keeps his faith despite facing horrific mortifications." He clears his throat loudly.
He's standing a good few paces away. "Could you perhaps come closer, Your Excellency?" you ask. "So that we may speak candidly, rather than calling out to one another."
"I would advise against it," he says. "I am wasting away from the consumption, you see; I wish not to expose Your Serene Highness to its fomes, as the eminent Fracastorius put it, so soon into Your Serene Highness' own convalesence." Fomes – the "tinder" of consumption.
"Then we are both tested by God," you acknowledge, "Your Excellency, too, faces holy mortification."
"Indeed. And, may He be willing to extend His mercy to us, we shall sup manna all the sweeter in Heaven for it." A well-timed coughing fit strikes him, and he produces a blood-stained handkerchief, spitting loudly into it. "My apologies, Your Serene Highness. Let us cease our small talk – I'm no fool, there's an election on. I imagine Your Serene Highness is not just here to exchange pleasantries."
You didn't really anticipate this being an issue. The last thing you want is to become a consumptive cripple by bidding the poor bishop to approach and lean in close to you. Hm...
[] "Have you a tent of your own, Your Excellency? Let us speak there."
[] "Would Your Excellency be willing to come to my family's pavilion to speak privately?"
This is even louder than a personal meeting, but taking the Bishop to your family would allow for a more coordinated effort, and to give due deference to Father.
You have an idea. You know that Father and your brothers will surely bristle at it – and your conscience will, too – but, in your mind, it must be done: the groundwork must be laid among the clergy for declaring a Habsburg king with the explicit backing of Mother Church and, by extension, the Lord. Of course, the Catholic churchmen will vote near-unanimously for the Archduke, no doubt, but if no decision can be reached among the secular lords? Let them turn to their confessors and parish priests and bishops for guidance, and let those men pronounce loudly who the candidate of God is. And, of course, if it truly comes to it: the Archbishop-Interrex may make a declaration all by himself, and the Papal Nuncio will back him on the behalf of Holy Father. The Senat may be half-Protestant, but the voting throngs that fill the muddy lanes of the Sejm camp are not.
But going straight to the Archbishop or the Nuncio would be too loud, much too loud. You've got the perfect candidate in mind, perhaps the most tolerant and humanistic of all the Polish clergy: Bishop Franciszek Krasiński of mighty Kraków, a powerful man with a powerful diocese, the sole spiritual lord to affix his seal to the Confederation nearly three years ago. Let him be an intermediary; meeting with him will soften any blow struck by one of the Catholic Radziwiłłowie cavorting about with a bishop.
Father begrudgingly accepts. Time to get to work.
A cloudy sky replaced the brilliant sunrise at some early point during the day's voting – by now, an autumn overcast reigns, darkening and darkening as dusk approaches. You're carried in your sedan chair to the de facto meeting place of the clergy: in and around the senatorial benches, and the Archbishop's grandstand. You appear before the throng of cassocked or robed men, their golden chains and white-gold threads rendered dull by the fading daylight.
A coughing Sir Marszowski steps out to address the mass of ecclesiastics, their heads long since turned to watch you be carried in. God, he's just getting skinnier and skinnier, you think to yourself, noticing Marszowski's trousers are becoming, how much thinner his reddish hair is. He clears his throat. "His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł of Dubinki and Birże, of Trąby arms, humbly requests a private audience with His Excellency the Bishop Franciszek Krasiński of Kraków!"
A bearded man of about fifty, as pale and hollow-cheeked and sickly-looking as your old fencing master, gently pushes his way to the fore, shuffling somewhat. He wears a plain grey, woolen cassock; if it wasn't for his many-ringed fingers, noticeable even at a distance, you could mistake him for a simple country curate. He gives you a raised hand and a nod as he strides before you. "Let me down," you say to your attendants.
You're handed your crutches as your men gingerly help you to the ground, and you bow as deeply as your predicament can allow you to before such an august man of God. "Your Excellency, you honor me."
"It is a shared sensation, then, Your Serene Highness," he smiles. "It is always a pleasure to speak with a young man who has seen the path of righteousness and turned towards it of his own will, who keeps his faith despite facing horrific mortifications." He clears his throat loudly.
He's standing a good few paces away. "Could you perhaps come closer, Your Excellency?" you ask. "So that we may speak candidly, rather than calling out to one another."
"I would advise against it," he says. "I am wasting away from the consumption, you see; I wish not to expose Your Serene Highness to its fomes, as the eminent Fracastorius put it, so soon into Your Serene Highness' own convalesence." Fomes – the "tinder" of consumption.
"Then we are both tested by God," you acknowledge, "Your Excellency, too, faces holy mortification."
"Indeed. And, may He be willing to extend His mercy to us, we shall sup manna all the sweeter in Heaven for it." A well-timed coughing fit strikes him, and he produces a blood-stained handkerchief, spitting loudly into it. "My apologies, Your Serene Highness. Let us cease our small talk – I'm no fool, there's an election on. I imagine Your Serene Highness is not just here to exchange pleasantries."
You didn't really anticipate this being an issue. The last thing you want is to become a consumptive cripple by bidding the poor bishop to approach and lean in close to you. Hm...
[] "Have you a tent of your own, Your Excellency? Let us speak there."
[] "Would Your Excellency be willing to come to my family's pavilion to speak privately?"
This is even louder than a personal meeting, but taking the Bishop to your family would allow for a more coordinated effort, and to give due deference to Father.
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