Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

"Oh, Lord, where to begin," Marszowski says, clasping his hands in thought. "Hmm… Well, the state's reformed, our Commonwealth." You nod. "In terms of new rights and privileges I'm all in favor, personally, though as a sworn man of the family – I can't be. This new union undermines us immensely. Your father made a stand against it at Lublin. He failed. His punishment?"

A flash of anger from the aging rake. "All the Grand Duchy south of, oh, Brześć? It's Poland now. The Crown. And now, any old Polish noble can waltz into Lithuania and expect to be treated on equal footing with illustrious houses such as ours, as if they're sons of the land. The line between Kingdom and Grand Duchy is fading."

"Appropriation?! Revocation?!" you splutter, already feeling pangs of anger, of mobilization. A dormant loyalty stirs.

Marszowski nods grimly. "We've been greatly weakened. Libertas Aurea, eh? Sed non nobis. Lithuania rallies around us now more than ever, at least, but missing four whole rightful Voivodeships." He sighs. "Now, onto succession?"

You try to let the spike of rage in your chest pass through. "Please."

"Well, as you know," he lowers himself to a harsh whisper, "that mean old cunt Zygmunt August is no more. And with him goes the line of Jadwiga and Jagiełło; the male line, that is. Does a Princess Anna ring a bell?"

You scrunch your face in thought. Nope. Marszowski continues: "Zygmunt's spinster sister. Everybody forgot about her, but she's the sole unmarried link to the old line. She may well now be Christendom's most desired maiden, nevermind that she's pushing fifty. Any potential marriage will sway the voters –"

Wait! "They literally meant an election? As in, the Senat and Sejm are going to…"

"Well, yes, it's tradition to a degree, Zygmunt the Old, the one from before your time, I mean, he promulgated…" Marszowski stops himself from a tangent. "The important thing is that it could be this way forever now; vivente rege's head is on the block. But which nobles may elect the king? Shall there be fixed Articles for the new king? Will the new Royal Majesty have a suckling pig or a dolphin for his first meal? Wheels of Italian cheese?" He laughs dryly. "Kurwa…"

The fencing master manages to calm himself down. "All rather unprecedented. Understandably, nobody quite knows what's going on. The Archbishop of Gniezno is damn near holding the country together singlehandedly. Now, onto our players: the King of Sweden, the Emperor and his folk, the mad Muscovite, that French prince Sierotka's off to see, uh…"

"Aleksandar. I met him. Bastard. And dangerous. Had a hand in St. Bartholomew's Day."

Shock flashes across the knight's face. "What? Tell me about that later!" You nod. "Ah, ehm, yes, so, him – he's arguably the status quo man. Frenchman and Turk are allies, a friend of the Frenchman is a friend of the Turk and that makes the south much less treacherous. France's distance means he's far from a power base, unlike the others. He'd be our king, understand? Not to mention if his homeland calls him for whatever reason, Anna could rule in his stead."

"Yes, I'm following."

"Now, the Habsburgs, they're our choice. I'd rather never have a foreigner sit the throne but I can't disagree with the rationale. Keep the crownlanders on their toes, gives us some breathing room in that regard, and guarantees peace in Śląsk and Upper Hungary, too. The clergy – the Catholic ones – are over the moon about it, naturally, and ought to further confuse things for the Crown's partisans."

He thumps his fist on his thigh and looks out the carriage window. "The only downside, besides some of the Protestants pitching a fit, is that the Turk may turn against us, or we likewise find ourselves dragged into an Imperial war against them. Their Tatar lapdogs would never quit. We'd also have to turn our back on Transylvania."

"Doesn't seem ideal," you muse, scratching your chin. "But anything to stymie the Kingdom proper, I suppose."

"Mhm," agrees Marszowski. "Next is the Swedish King. he's something like a… half-Lutheran? need I say more about who'd want him, then?" He chuckles. "But, to be fair, he's married to Princess Katarzyna, and his son and heir is of royal blood therefore. The Emperor's great-grandfather is Kazimierz Andrzej but, you know, proximity and all…"

"Naturally, yes," you say. "Do continue."

"The protest candidate is the Muscovite, damn his eyes and his name," Marszowski spits. "At least that's how I see it, not sure if his party is being genuine or not. It's mainly Ruskie from our – what should be our – southern Voivodeships, as well as some of the lesser families. I'm not quite sure why they're asking to be murdered."

Marszowski begins to snap his fingers. "Ay, agh, come on… Right, yes, some of the more minor candidates: crownlanders with a chivalric, romantic streak are gunning for a Śląski Piast, from one of those little fiefs. Rather unserious, if you ask me."

He knits his brow and gives an approving nod. "I'd give more credence to our little Transylvanian faction, they've got some sense: ties high and low to the Zápolyas and Batorys, a counterweight against the Emperor, buffer against the Turk, the prospect of a new, friendly realm over the mountains…"

"Right… Right-right," you ponder. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us."

"We do indeed. That being said…" Marszowski leans out the coach window. "Sir Sienkiewicz, bring up that Burgundy, please! Goblets too!"

You smile. An attendant rides up a light trot, rifling through a saddlebag. "Your Serene Highness, Sir Marszowski," he nods humbly, giving an awkward bow still in the saddle before producing the requested items.

An odd feeling. The other children growing up (that bully aside, but he got birched til he bled) treated you with deference but in France you were oft little better than a common page. You pinch your nose for a few moments, pondering.

You shift your attention to Sir Marszowski, who has already made it through the wax and wood stopper, now making an effort at clean pours in spite of the bumps and bounces of the road. "Beer and gorzała make a man sleepy, lustful, stupid, angry – wine stimulates, brings good conversation. And fie on it if we stain our clothes," he explains. He passes you a goblet and you begin to sip.

"It seems to me we live in a time of great change," you say. "Which is exciting, I suppose. But great change certainly visited France in my time there."

"You've grown into a smart lad – is it alright I'm this informal?" You wave your hand: oh please. He chuckles. "Thank you, lord Prince, heh; but, yes, I think you're onto something. That's the great fear of us all."

"Civil war."

His expression is sober. "But we cannot let the Crown take anything further from us. The new Union may hobble the king and his lackeys' power, but Zygmunt gave us his parting shot before the grave, that's for damn sure."

[] "Let come what may, then."

[] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."

[] "So long as we not slaughter each other for the sake of one's confession."

[] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."

"May God show mercy, perhaps that's the way it'll be," replies Marszowski.

You stare at your boots and exhale, just short of a sigh, beginning a coughing fit you will yourself to cut short. You look him in the eye. He sits up straight and prepares to listen; he can read it on your face.

"Dear Chevalier, on the ship, when I thought I would die, I had a vision one night. The sole lantern had blown out and I felt my soul rising up through me. Out of my chest and into my throat and mouth and nose. I was ready to go. Someone appeared in the doorway of my cabin; I could see them even though it was pitch-black. My ears rang and I thought myself dying and I saw all the beauties of God's creation magnified, down to the most minute detail of the head of an ant, or the veins of a leaf in the sun. I saw my mother, Andrzej. My mother. My mother."

He sits in silence, unblinking, utterly consumed. You've never used his Christian name before. "I saw my mother," you repeat, voice cracking. Tears well. "I can scarcely remember her face but I saw her. She is in Heaven, I just know it, it was beautiful." You try to collect yourself somewhat. "You know how when, on the cusp of sleep, one feels as if they're falling and then jolts awake?"

Marszowski nods.

"I felt that, it felt like I was shooting out of ice-cold water with just a vapor of breath left in me. I awoke and the lantern was burning again. I was able to walk by the end of the week."

You clear your throat and wipe your eyes. Marszowski sits in silence – you're not sure for how long.

"Lad," he begins tentatively, "you know I was known to skip Mass – and now the services these days." He speaks again after a big, chest-puffing inhale. "I fear God. I do. I hope He knows so. Still, I've violated the bonds of marriage countless times, killed men for pride's sake, engaged in every frivolity, every vanity."

His free hand is upturned, suppliant. It's vaguely disturbing to see him like this. "Unless you were quite literally dreaming, son, I think Death himself passed you over. He received new orders from his master."

You don't know what to say. The pines outside remind you of a company of pike from the helmets up, stretching out in all directions with their rod-like trunks and green spearheads. The men always shifted from this foot to that back in France, as they waited to kill or die. But the forest is calm, not swaying as they'd be were they awaiting battle.

The land is at peace for now. Your memory, your fantasy, your dreams begin to blend. You are transported in several directions, to several places at once, you pull inward yet start up coughing again.

From rote reflex alone, you pray an Ave Maria. It grounds you; you realize you're digging your nails into your sweaty palms, reopening scabbed-over bloodletting cuts on your hands. The holy poetry of that is not lost on you, and you feel as if you're being watched by something beyond human. You realize you'd really like a mirror, though you fear what you'll see.

You touch your ears, your temples going down to where the surgeon shaved your sideburns, the underside of your chin – they're there, too. You recall how they snake up your arms, maybe five or six or seven on each, how they live in the cruxes behind your knees. The bump-bones of your ankles. Even your nethers. How am I alive?

You wanted to see all those unburnt farms again, to leave the wood. The coach trundles on. Eight days to Wawel.

Marszowski breaks the silence. "You're marked, son. No doubt in my mind."

"I never knew you to take divine signs so seriously."

"I didn't." He takes a big, steadying gulp of wine. You decide it's a good idea and follow suit.

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never be more athirst: but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.

The crisp bite of the drink is fading in your mouth, reminding you of the tart film left by raspberries. A sensation from a long time ago, when things made sense and came easily. Marszowski bows his head; you fear he's nearly beside himself. He bounces one leg at speed.

You begin anew: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…

So little time to prepare, and then it is simply upon you.

 

[Sertorius]

[X] "Let come what may, then."

also @Sertorius let's hear what I got wrong lol

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No, no, you've done your homework, everything looks fine and it's a nice read.

"But, to be fair, he's married to Princess Katarzyna, and his son and heir is of royal blood therefore. The Emperor's great-grandfather is Kazimierz Andrzej but, you know, proximity and all…"

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Besides the unmarried Anna and Katarzyna (and her Vasa offspring that would gain the throne in time), there are also the fairly forgotten Jadwiga (wife of the deceased Elector of Brandenburg Joachim II Hector, yet they only had daughters) as well as Zofia (wife Henry V of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, childless). I believe due to having no male heirs and becoming Lutheran they weren't taken into consideration, but still should be mentioned for completion's sake (to show, that there are more than only 2 Jagiellons remaining).

vivente rege's head is on the block. But which nobles may elect the king? Shall there be fixed Articles for the new king?

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Vivente rege (that is, electing a new King while to old one still lives with consent from all parties) was always a sore spot for the nobility. While the future Henrician Articles forbade any new monarch from trying to have a successor elected while he's still alive, it should be noted that this conundrum had its roots with Zygmunt the Old and his son Zygmunt August. Good old pappy made his son in 1522 the Grand Duke of Lithuania during his lifetime and co-ruled with him there (the monarch was much stronger in his native Lithuania, than in Poland). Now this would force the Crownlanders (an informal way of addressing Poles, being from the Crownlands - Crown of the Kingdom of Poland was the official name) - good catch by the way @Rolman , though I struggle if it should be Crownlander or Crownman, but both seem fine - to elect Zygmunt August as their King with the Old's passing if they wanted to maintain the union between the kingdoms. This eventually came to fruition in 1529, when Zygmunt August was elected as King of Poland as well to co-rule with his father. While this would probably still happen if everything went the old-fashioned way, it was the forced hand itself that really infuriated the nobility. After the young lads election, the nobles forced Zygmunt the Old to swear, that all future elections of August's successors would be carried out according to the previously established standards, so that vivente rege would never again appear on the agenda.

"Thank you, lord Prince, heh; but, yes, I think you're onto something. That's the great fear of us all."

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Ah yes, I always thought about how to properly translate the term "Mości Książę", a more informal way of addressing a Prince/Duke and much like the more polite Your Serene Highness I find it very elegant and functional as well.

 

[Rolman]

This is a beautiful land. Your childhood mercifully bubbles up unbidden, overcoming the calluses of war, illness, and strife.

There are no ghost towns here. There are no refugee baggage trains or half-clothed, stunned children living as savages in the woods. Bodies do not line the ditches, men need not ply evil trades to live; highwaymen – though ever-present – were of the mildest concern. The beautiful mire-filled forests of Pomerania instead brought bog iron miners, peat-diggers, and men carrying great vats of pitch in handcarts, your entourage snaking around alder fens until reaching the drier woods of beech, oak, and maple. To the south grazed herds of deer and cattle in wide meadows and pastures, watched over by the ever-present pike-pines.

Hedgerows and rough-hewn fences lined the roads around thatched and wood-shingled little hamlets, modest churches of all confessions (all of them!) changed from village to village. Catholic pilgrims once gave your party directions, a Calvinist reverend spoke on weather and the faith with you and your men, and ever-present were the friendly Jewish tavernkeeps.

Praise God. These were good folk, though you longed for Lithuania more than you ever could admire the Crown. Old Tatjana never left your thoughts; you fretted over whether or not she was alive – none in your entourage could answer the question. Your kind pays no mind to women like her.

Peasants in tunics and wool jackets removed their caps and waved from afar or bowed deeply up close, their women wearing embroidered dresses, capped with kerchiefs and headscarves dyed as brightly as they could afford. Petty nobles would run up to the entourage, bend the knee, and make spirited inquiries on who and why and where to. Even the more desperate ones seemed clean and well-fed, dutifully at work in the field sewing the overwinter crop: "the hardy stuff, like cabbage and turnips," Sir Marszowski explained, "onions or garlic, barley, rye. It'll give them a little half-harvest come springtime."

The poorest were merely goat farmers with holes in their clothes; nearly everybody seemed to own chickens and sheep, ample hogs, an ox – you knew not of that life, but they seemed entirely without misery compared to some places you had seen. The folwark houses and monasteries in which you lodged on occasion were always well-stocked with food and drink, the landlords and abbots never concerned with armies on the march or running out of funds.

Of course, nowhere is perfect. The sight of a bloated hanged man from a great oak tree on the roadside brought you, embarrassingly, out of your skin. You understood why yet cursed yourself for cowardice, and it took a great deal to not display it outwardly. A placard dangled from his neck, written in Polish and Latin:

On October the 23rd, Anno Domini 1573, under lawful torture did I confess to the theft of a draught horse and three steers from my own lord and master. Furthermore did I offer up confession that I ventured to abscond from justice and my master under false pretenses. And, hitherto my confession, I both lied without repentance on these matters and further ventured to falsely implicate my own neighbors. May God have mercy on my eternal soul.

Indeed, the peasantry were unfree here. For all its flaws, many of the peasants of France and at least a few stretches of the Empire were freemen. You thought it odd that this bothered you, and Sir Marszowski explained with a mildly guilty expression about its good for the wellbeing of lord and serf alike. It's a compelling argument, and it's not really something that can change. But much could soon change for the little people and the lords, too, for that matter – you shuddered at the thought of this land falling into war, however necessary one may be.

Your party approached Kraków from the northwest with increasing fanfare. You sought out a vantage point and beheld the Vistula flowing out of view behind the many steeples and red-tiled roofs of the city, Wawel sitting stately in its center atop a hill, as fine a castle as any Dark Age fable's. You reckoned her half as large as Paris with Wawel as fine as the Louvre: people say the city exceeds Prague and competes with Vienna. Although you swallowed at the thought of a return to the maze-like streets of a dangerous, dirty city – however insulated you may be – you also found yourself nearly giddy at the prospect of the new sights, sounds, smells, and people awaiting you.

You entered through the city gate's with a ruckus all around – another wealthy prince in the city, they cried! Royal heralds and armed lordlings rode out to meet you, escorting you up into the palace.

Time for battle! You found yourself confronted quickly by a mighty host of fur-capped noblemen, and you began a desperate battle of managing what very easily could've been a few dozen introductions within minutes.

Ostrogskitarnowskisieniawskkiszkaiossolińskichodkiewiczzamoyskitworowskiskargabudnygonesiuslutherjanfirlej well how about those Mohyłas the Moldavians yes them my brother my sister my uncles and cousins my dog my falcon my horse are you married lord Prince 'no sir' are you Reformed lord Prince 'no sir' but your family is 'yes sir' help help help help help help!

Sierotka was absolutely, completely right. At least three people asked you for money. It feels like hours before your attendants successfully usher you out of the fray. As you attempted to pick at the newly-formed knots in your head, you decided that this place may be more arcane than even the French court's sprawling spiderweb. You'll have to consult Sir Marszowski often until you've got everything sorted out.

Or your Father and brothers. You ought not forget. Though in time you were told that Septimus and Krzysztof – apparently hardened by war since fourteen or fifteen – were still out East in the Grand Duchy screening against Tatar and Muscovite probes.

Your father requested to see you man to man, in private. You were ushered into a spacious suite and the heavy door shut behind you. Standing waiting, at once shining like steel-plate and wholly earthly, was the old man, ruddy as ever, wearing creases dug deeper and a long white beard. He seemed hale as ever, without a hint of a limp or a paunch. You try to ignore your thudding chest and fluttering gut. You feel small.

"Son," he says, giving a smile and a somewhat terse hug. "You've grown well, praise the Lord." He sizes you up. "You're like your brothers but a pinch shorter. And perhaps a bit too skinny?"

"Father," you say, in the brief moment you find your face in his shoulder. You're taken aback by his… Perhaps not coldness, but, well, it's been nine or ten years! You were expecting a bit more, you suppose. "Bad flux on the voyage over," you explain, "it was touch and go for a moment." And, despite some hesitation, you give a summary on your vision – omitting the bit about Mother, of course.

He listens closely and nods along. "Your first time on a ship," he says to himself. "I'm glad you took it to heart, Son. Such mysteries and acts ought never be taken lightly. And, God willing, may it provide you with a little food for thought."

You know what he means by that. "Father–"

He raises a hand. "You need not defend yourself, pay no mind to a wisecrack. You were always a sensitive lad and clearly something imprinted upon you; God works in secret and I need not understand. Though you may know it to be a sore spot for me, we shan't speak on it more as you're of my blood and that is enough."

"I swear to God I am for the family," you stammer. His authority washes over you.

He looks you dead in the eye. "But you're a man grown and your choice is your choice, both in my own eyes and those of the law. And, praise God," he adds, "the rumor mill says you're a veritable little Erasmus." There's a sudden flash of tenderness. "So, I don't feel as if I failed you or the family for that matter. Your cousins are similarly sensible in their own reversions."

"Regarding my reason and my faith, Father, I am an open book," you gently counter. "And Erasmus, though I'll need to read more, is of the humanist sort. And that was how they brought me up – no Jesuits," you joke.

Father grins and lets out a hmph. "That's a fine thing, as I've got work for you. You seem marvelous smart but I'm putting you to the test, son, I won't mince it."

"Anything, Father."

"You were in France. I am told that you have seen things."

"Indeed, Father."

"Could put our Iwan and his barbarians to shame," he grunts. "And I am most glad to see you're of a level head on matters of faith. You see, there is agitation for an edict of tolerance for the safeguarding of the Liberty and of peace itself."

"I see."

"Undoubtedly, you support this, yes?"

"Absolutely."

"Good," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "As do I. Both for obvious reasons and to offer safety to those fearful of an Imperial prince. I'd send Catholic Sierotka were he not bound for Paris." That hurt a little. "To have one of our princes in attendance to any potential convocated sejm that would bring an edict of tolerance. This means you stay here."

"It will be done, Father." You behave properly before man and God.

"You will be well taken care of as is befitting of your station. I will leave you to your doings and a trustworthy man will bring you the princely stamp."

Well, that accounts for the next two weeks to two months. Who's to say? Until Father dies you do as Father orders and that's that, for some things never change.

You find yourself tongue-tied. "Thank you, Father," is what you decide upon. "I'll let down neither you nor our name. Always a Radziwiłl first."

He gives you a single nod of approval. "Very good. God willing, you'll rise to your raising. Do not disappoint us. I'll be here for a few days more before I head back east."

You bow as a vassal and turn to the door.

"Oh," projects Father, just about when you're at the threshold. You turn to face him. "That nursemaid of yours – the Ruskaja – she died about this time last year." He must see the look on your face. "I'm sorry, son," he volunteers, but he said it as if a much-loved hound or horse died. Utter afterthought. "No one told you?"

"No one knew who she was. No one ever knew who I was talking about."

You catch yourself and say something that must've been appropriate with some expected what-a-shame nonchalance. You don't really remember. You hold it together for a half-hour more of pleasantries and introductions with retainers and retainers' retainers before you at last can duck into a servants' hallway.

You cry. A few dry sleeve-muffled sobs, some wheezing and hitching of breath. All three make you cough and you have time for none of it. You dry your eyes, wipe your nose, and continue for a day (the next few days, be honest with yourself) with a sensation in your torso not entirely divorced from the leaden stone of the days after the Massacre. Sir Marszowski dutifully guards the doorway; you told him that Tatjana's dead and he needed no further explanation.

You soldier on and pray for her night and day. A fortunate thing that this is the month of prayer for the departed. A little Marian shrine appears in your chambers as the days turn to weeks, indeed, weeks. The Protestants and politiques continue to mutter about their hopeful declaration of tolerance, and you continue to await it – your copy of the family seal stamp is delivered in due time.

You reaccustom yourself to Polish dress (warmer and more comfortable!) and Polish weather. You learn to enjoy using a fork for all your food, not just fruits and vegetables, cursing chamber pots to the most fiery of the Enemy's pits as you experience indoor plumbing for the first time. You had seen a pomme de terre in France, but you finally ate one baked – same with maize and a new poultry simply called Indicus, and everybody can't stop talking about rumors of a sweat-inducing, energizing hot drink that supposedly belongs to the Turk. You walk and ride through the Kraków streets and alleys, familiarizing yourself with a cleaner and safer city. That's relatively speaking, of course.

But, by Saint Andrew's day, you find yourself itching with boredom. Thankfully, the distractions are as ample as they are important.

You focus your attention on…

[THE BELOW FOUR CHOICES WILL BEGIN A SIDESTORY. Think of it as a highlight from your downtime, to be posted independently (or not) with clock-moving main updates.]

[] The temporal.

Continue to orient yourself. Meet important lords, Senators, and ranking courtiers. Given your name and novelty, pretty much everybody would like to meet you. Again. Maria give you strength.

[] The spiritual.

Meet clergy from all confessions, though mainly the Catholic ones. Piotr Skarga, the arch-conservative Jesuit, the Papal ambassador, and the Archbishop of Gniezno are of high priority. You hope to find a reliable confessor and maybe even a good astrologer, too.

[] The ladies.

You're about five years overdue for marriage, after all. You feel childish for such romanticism, but you begin to fantasize about a love-match. On the contrary, a third son needs all the help he can get – even a Radziwiłl.

[] The rakes.

Louts are underrated. Drunkards frequently pour out prophetic words and earthly secrets. These men and their frowned-upon women know everything, say little, all while throwing parties that would make the most hedonistic of Alexandre's mignons blush. Though it'll prove embarrassing, a deeper acquaintance with the hustling, unsavory side of the court can provide subtle allies and many a rumor-thread to pull on.

And regarding the months to come with its potential agenda, you felt…

[] Ready to fight for the family.

You'll have to balance your conscience and your consciousness. Espouse tolerance while agitating for a Habsburg. Be genuine regarding both. Need more be said?

[] Ready to fight for the Church.

Let us not rip each other apart, but the astray must be herded home again and the truth of God, the inviolable Trinity, Maria, and the Saints returned to primacy. The clergy will smile upon you, while the Protestants and perhaps even your own family rumble and grumble.

[] Ready to fight for the Liberty.

This place may just be exceptional, and not just because it's your homeland. You cast aside petty loyalties in the name of this project, this Res Publica of the noble. Ingratiates you to the crownlander reformist camp and the lesser nobility, but your brother-Lithuanians will surely be taken aback.

[] Ready to fight for the Grand Duchy itself.

For what is the family if not Lithuania? Arguably. That may be dramatic. But it's not untrue. Fight against further union beyond the bounds of the family's position. You will make no friends through this except for back home, but France taught you to make a stand and dig your feet in. An inch given is a mile taken.

 

[Rolman]

The occasion for this dance is the coming of Advent Sunday. Things are bound to get serious both spiritually and secularly come wintertime, and the unspoken energy of the court seems to cry out: enjoy it while it lasts!

So that is the plan. You find yourself a pinch nervous, trying to settle down with Sir Marszowski with that fine medicine known as heated wine. "So we're a little girl-crazy, lord prince?" he asks with a grin.

"Oh, come now. It's just that in Paris –"

"Yes, yes," says Sir Marszowski, reaching across the table to poke you under the ribs. "You were just so repressed in Paris for want of preventing scandals, no good matches, yes-yes."

"But I'm serious!" you groan, unable to distinguish blushing from the warmth of drink. "It just… It wasn't even an option."

"No whores?"

"What? No!"

"Wow, ah, alright," he seems genuinely amazed. "Perhaps the first ever. A more honorable prince than I'd be," laughs Sir Marszowski. "Thank God you've at least danced with a lady– you have, haven't you?" You roll your eyes. "Though the rash on my back–"

You know what that could mean. You cannot lose another parent. The fun in your system evaporates; you feel sobered up and beyond that.

"It's alright! It's alright!" says the aging knight, his face alight now with a mirrored worry. "It's probably just the small pox; the pox that is small I mean, not small– you understand – it hasn't gotten worse for a year or two and if it ends up being the Italian or French pox or whatever it may be–"

Your face is buried in your hands and you speak through them. "Sir Marszowski, by all the Saints…"

"Lord prince, they've got treatments for it! Good ones. I reckon I'm fine and if I'm not fine I reckon I'll be. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He refills your goblet. "Come on, drink, drink, lord prince. It dries up the black bile, this is a night for sanguinity."

"I'm not going– I'm going to be thinking about this all night now." You lean back in your chair and sag.

Marszowski tries to engage with you through the earmuffs of your racing mind. "Hey-hey-hey, lord prince," he starts snapping in your face. "Lord prince!"

You can't ever really remember getting angry at old Marszowski but: "What!"

"I'm sorry. Truly. You know I've been wounded in eight places, right?" You look up at him and sigh. "And survived infection twice."

You sigh again and realize what a fool you're being. You're a prince, by God. "I'm sorry I'm acting like a child."

"Fear is a childish thing, and you're right to fear," he says, leaning close and shaking your shoulder with his once-snapping, extended hand. "Were my old man to tell me that, I'd be fearful too. Even at your age. But are you a child?"

"No."

"Then you must rid yourself of childish things!" His brows are knit as if he's frustrated but his eyes and mouth smile. "Except for play, of course," he chuckles. "Now, would you like to talk about the fine ladies attending tonight?"

You'll have to make an effort. You reverse your slump. "Fine."

"Well – you're alright?"

"I said I'm fine."

"Well enough then. It's that– well, you're a bit late, is the problem. The older sisters are married and the younger ones aren't women yet."

"Generationes," you muse, "problemata est," working to quiet the sting of panic and fearful anger still in you. "Hm. Do you have names?"

"Not really, no." He chuckles. "I much prefer women my own age; you'll understand someday. But, I mean – Chodkiewicz, Sieniawski, Tarnowski girls are here. I think a Prussian or Livonian or two or some such, some Rosjanki from down south, from our rightful voivodeships."

Now Marszowski himself is looking a little sober. "Lad, I know you want to try at a little love story – and it's happened, it's true – but… May I give you some frank advice, lord prince?"

You're not ready but you must be. "Go ahead."

"You are a third son, my lord. It is a difficult position. There are only so many estates to go around." He clasps his hands together and flickers his eyes between your gaze and the floor. "So, a good dowry – that's a real consideration. An alliance. Proximity to the Grand Duchy. A family's factional loyalties."

You still feel a bit of brine in your blood, so to speak, and yellow bile you never quite knew you had continues to flow. "Yes, Sir Marszowski, I know all that!"

"Well, I'm sorry, then, lord prince–"

"It's just, that – do you understand how few real friends I've had? People who have really loved me? You, Tatjana, my brothers, I hope Father… In France, everybody was merely an acquaintance or a teacher."

Marszowski closes his half-open mouth. You continue: "So can you blame me for being romantic? Can you blame me for wanting to want someone?"

"I was young once; I understand. And I'm not saying that you ought to coldly calculate," he extends a hand in caution, palm out. "But it's a serious political choice, and for both families. Also lots of arrangements turn into love, anyway. And hey!"

"What?"

"Mistresses! Buying cows and stealing milk and all that?" Marszowski scoffs at your consternation. "You are up-tight, lord prince!"

You make a bid for a shutdown. "Alright, well, what are the dances tonight, lech?"

Sir Marszowski snorts. "Um, the usual. Branles, passamezzo-pavanes, galliards – ah! There's this new one. Can you dance the cascarda?"

"The what?"

"Oh no." That's genuine. "It's a new one – Italian, of course – alright, we need to train you up." He cranes his neck out the window. "Already dark. We've got a few hours? Let's go!"

You are sweaty. You survived practice without coughing to an unattractive extent. You have changed into your feasting duds, but no time for a bath. Indeed, the time has come!

A cascarda is difficult on the body but easy on the mind for a trained dancer – there are only around five steps and most come in repeating, verse-chorus solo-partner format. It's the stages that make it difficult; several rounds of dancing about in circles and figure-eights, interspersed with contactless, mirrored partner dance and openly flirtatious solos. A headspinning dance in more ways than one.

"You should probably be alright," pants Marszowski, sizing you up, "You're tense but you'd probably be anyway, heh." He whips his hair back, sending some sweat flying.

You're shaking your legs and ankles out. "Oh, come on. My first try and coming back from flux no less – not everybody can be you, old timer." You make a face at him.

"You can always marry your cousin." You can see his core tensing up, trying not to laugh. "Sierotka's sister. I'm joking but I'm serious."

"That is gross! That is gross."

"Are you really such a monk you're gonna break out the table of consanguinity and–"

"Oh, go to Hell, Pops!" You laugh in spite of yourself. "I don't care that she's my cousin, I care that she could hardly talk when I last saw her."

"Well, yet again–"

"...You must prepare yourself for the inevitabilities of – yes! I know! I know! Just– that– sometimes I feel like the only person that can see anything!"

"Peasants marry their cousins…"

"...That there's something wrong with the world!"

"...And they don't necessarily love-match all that often…"

"That there's something wrong with its people!"

"...Such things have never changed…"

"Consort with your cousin for money, is what it is! Kill the faithful for Christ!"

Marszowski's teeth flash. "Again?! We're doing this again!" he snaps. "I love you mighty well, lord prince, and, as your subordinate – because I am your lesser, don't forget – I respectfully say that this whining thing– it– makes me sick!"

Has he ever really, truly yelled at you before? And at last now, as a man grown?

"To say you're the only one who sees it!" He shakes his goblet at you, wine spilling onto his hand. "I see it! The monks and nuns – ask them! Ask the suicides and the cripples and lunatics!"

You feel like a child. In the sad, fearful, self-loathing way. Like how you replayed every step you took when you first got to France.

"See it, oh, see what? God passed you over, lad! You! You saw it with your own two eyes."

"I did," you answer limply.

"So maybe all this… All this melancholia! Instead of using it to feel all put-upon, to shy from girls and partying and the little intrigues, to be oh-so-detached, woe-is-me, icon-clutching – the Lord put you here to use it!"

He continues. "That God-damned black bile! It's always been–" he squeezes at an invisible fruit. "Pouring out of you! So different from every other lad I've tutored, from your brothers, even, it's why I love you! But it's making you into a… I didn't raise up a…"

"Please. You need not finish." You are trying not to pout yet feel much younger than your age. "You sound a lot like that French prince, Aleksandar; I ran my mouth with him, too."

"Well, was he right?"

You give a defeated shrug. "Not sure."

Sir Marszowski leans in, clapping his hand on your shoulder with a tender squeeze-and-shake. He smiles without his eyes. "You're right, you know, lord prince. You do see things others don't. Which is why it's paramount you start acting a man and a prince and fast. Too many in your position are harebrained, vicious, or both. Do me the honor of something, and I'll leave you be?"

Out with it. He reads you: "don't ever let me talk down to you again. I should be birched like a naughty page for this. I'm quite literally a servant. By God, you're a prince, lord prince!"

"Now let me dance?"

The old bastard cracks a genuine grin this time around. "Yes. Now I let you dance. And don't fear the lady, fear her face!"

Huh?

Well! Quite the night! But other considerations win the day, the weeks, the months – you'll have to put your pursuits on hold for the time being. You were back on the road soon enough, this time bound for Warszawa, where a trickle of muttering, concerned lords had by now burst open into a torrent – naturally you must follow the flow.

But why this place? You hadn't heard much of it besides knowing it hosts the Sejm. Your entourage headed northeast, running parallel to the half-froze Wisła, through tracts of modest Calvinist churches and clumps of pariah Arians gathered around their hedge-preachers, braving the snow and stone-throwing kids. Indeed, the lands around the royal capital to the east is Firlej-cja, as some would say – Sandomierz and Lublin Voivodeships are the bastions of Crownland Calvinism, nevermind that Lord Firlej prefers Luther.

Warszawa cut a modest yet impressive silhouette as the river led you toward her. Perhaps two thirds of a Kraków and wait wait is that Wawel's tower?

"Yes," says Sir Marszowski.

"What?"

"Zygmunt August built a littler one. The palace, I mean. For the Sejms."

"Hm."

"Yes, like a replica, lord prince." more quietly: "the King may have had the Pox – makes you mad – your aunt dying on him, I don't know."

Next to catch your attention (and cause a spine-tingle) was something highly reminiscent of an army's camp parked beyond the city walls, tents and smokestacks extending for several hundred meters in all directions. The mini-Wawel was already well at capacity; your name provided you and your men with palace quarters, but it was clear that the nitty-gritty lay in the muddy tracks of the Sejm camp below and beyond. After a day's rest, you ventured with Sir Marszowski and some bodyguards out into the mix.

The man with the cannon is an important man indeed. This is true anywhere, anytime, but especially when he's leaning on one. He sizes you and your party up, cocking his head and scratching his big beard.

"Sir," you say with a wave, dipping into a bow as you draw nearer. "Do I speak with the honorable Lord Firlej?"

He rises and returns the bow. "Indeed. And who're you?" he asks, seeming to examine the fineries of your outfit.

"I am the Imperial Prince of Dubinki and Birże, Stanisław Radziwiłł, the third son of the Imperial Prince Mikołaj." Handshakes are exchanged. "I'm here to represent the Grand Duchy and the will of my kinsmen."

"Very good, Your Serene Highness. And I am here to represent my brother Christians, to ensure that they may live as they please." He pats his cannon. "This I will do, or die trying. Law and tradition, decency before God and man's conscience alike – and above all I am for those who have heard the truth of Christ preached through Gospel alone."

He is giving a speech and you've been cowed into the spectator. He is a natural; the long hair to match his beard combines with his burning eyes, pointy nose, and wrinkled face to create a dragon of a man, frills spreading outwards and breathing ash-flecked steam. "You represent what you represent, lord prince, as I represent my arms and my kin and the Crown. Now what I want to know is what you stand for, lord prince, for I have heard you are a young master of religious conviction." He looks around theatrically, spreading his arms out at the camp. "And I've seen no other Radziwiłłowie save this one."

Head-on! No more whining, no more whinging! "You mean one of the Popish ones, sir?"

He nods. "And a Catholic who witnessed that black work in Paris, I'm told, now just what–"

"I believe in the truth, Lord Firlej. I believe that God will forever favor the truth. And that truth will prevail over sword and scepter." You quote the Creed: "I believe in the communion of the Saints, in the existence of one holy and catholic Church as dictated unto Petrus by the Christ. Do you not believe in the truth as you do?"

Lord Firlej looks taken aback before cracking a smile. "Do say more, lord prince."

"There was a philosopher I met one night in Paris by the name of Seigneur Montaigne, sir," you say, "it was a year or two before the Massacre. he had a most interesting thought about the cannibal savages off in the Indies – said he'd write about it someday. A real thinker, comfortable with discomfort, always saying 'well what do I know?'"

You are glad to see the firebrand listening, the tables turned. "I digress. The man-eaters, going about naked and living in their barns of rushes, ignorant completely to God, consorting freely and in open – in their barbarism he saw the law of Plato, for those laws of nature see no land, no man apart."

Firlej hums. You continue: "Never did Cain consume Abel, and never did the Hebrew slay the Samaritan. Yet the Antarctic eats his foeman and the Catholic massacres the Hugues, and some do say that the Parisian murderers consumed the hearts and livers of the dead. Do any of these people cry 'savagery!' at all?"

"I think I read your meaning, lord prince…"

"I find myself at war with barbarism, Lord Firlej. I have seen enough; it is a thing to be exceeded, did we Sarmatians not live in the saddle as a Hun would in Caesar's time?"

"Well! Then you've got me relieved over here, lord prince," chuckles Firlej. "I thought something would have to be amiss; Old Rudy would never send his youngest, reverted son for no reason, I thought. But they put you up in the palace?"

"Well, yes, what's–"

"With all the clergymen, lord prince. I'm a senator-Grand Marshal living in my own tent, lord prince! The Interrex and Hozjusz's representatives, the Nuncio, the bishops and Catholic senators," he angrily exclaims, approaching closer and lowering his voice. He gestures for your respective entourages to back off; you nod in assent. "Lord prince, you see – I was afraid that dread pa of yours sent you here to dismantle the Commonwealth."

Wow. "Most of we Christians thought so," Firlej explains. "Figured one of two things: an agitator to make the land a new France so to install Grand Duke Mikołaj in the chaos, or to invite the Emperor in."

"I am no traitor and I am no wrecker, sir," you say, trying not to bristle. "I am here for peace, for my country, for my family."

Firlej smiles. He reminds you of old Admiral Coligny. "We shall see. You seem right-minded, lord prince. If that be the case, then you ought get to work," says Lord Firlej. "Everybody will listen to a Catholic Radziwiłł, even without a position or true-owned estate to your name." He winces. "No offense, lord prince."

"None taken. God willing, that cannon will gather dust." The two of you laugh – yours somewhat forced.

Marszowski beamed for the rest of the day and literally danced around you in your quarters.

"Lord prince, lord prince!" he kept exclaiming, "that was no woman I saw, no little boy, no melancholic!"

You did feel proud. Rather than fearing him, you began to find yourself itching to spar with Aleksandar, should he be elected. Of course, arguing with a King – well, no, of course you won't. But you realized that you had never quite found yourself fantasizing about a fight before.

Indeed, the time has come for you to play the game, dance the branle, cross swords, and as the Prince Stanisław and not a page or foreign guest.

Though the nightmares blunted your rest, you emerged from your chamber the next day with purpose and clarity. Who are you speaking with first?

[] The Catholic clergy.

They say that a few of them – perhaps two in fifty or so, guesses Firlej – are amenable to an edict of tolerance. The rest would likely never budge. But perhaps if one of their own will listen to you, perhaps they'll listen to him? Your intentions will be considered ambiguous at best by the pro-tolerance camp.

[] The Protestant lords.

Although you're sure Firlej will grapevine it, put the Reformed lords' minds fully at ease and send a message to the Catholics that you are here in favor of an edict. Will ingratiate you to Protestants across the Commonwealth and maybe even some of the Ruthenian Orthodox by osmosis. The priests will surely all but give up on you, though, and the more activist Catholic lords, too.

[] The Catholic lords.

After all, they comprise a majority of attendants and are fiercely divided on the matter. A fellow Catholic and representative of the House of advocating for an edict will surely hold great sway among Crownlander and countryman alike. Socially inoffensive, but a quiet come-out as pro-tolerance will have the (perhaps dampened) expected effects.

[] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.

Ballsy and likely to impress the temporal and spiritual alike should you stick the landing. You haven't done anything like this since Meaux, and you scarcely managed to speak without a trembling voice then. But, given the rumors about you alongside your clout as a Radziwiłł, it will surely have a great effect. Also serves as a general introduction to Rudy's mysterious youngest boy. But loud. Uncomfortably so? It can pay to be mysterious.

 

[Rolman]

For some reason you're fiddling with your rosary under the table.

Women are strange. The Mother gave birth to the salvation of the world, yet would she have been as susceptible to superstition, to quackery and to diabolic possession? If those German bishops aren't just being hysterical, that is. You grin at yourself for the potential for such irony.

No, the average one is a mere parody of Maria, just as even the most faithful men, even the Saints, can only hope to clumsily imitate Christ.

Yet they are not completely divorced from She, you think: from whom may we expect to find peacemakers in village and palace alike, to truly uphold harmony, mending ties as she mends clothes. Who is it that puts herself through the trial of birth for the sake of God's commandment and her husband's fortune, what man offers such kindness and deference to his master save for those willing to die? You reckon there may be more good women than good men on this earth.

This is what you've heard, at least. What mother did you ever know besides Our Lady? The Queen Mother in France is a living, breathing clarion call: every lust and vanity they find themselves quickly overtaken by, driven to rages and melancholia over trifles. Just as she may imbue a child with vigor and wits through right conduct she may too produce a dullard or nothing at all through sin and lack of care. In the management of money they are frivolous, and she may quickly turn her sensitivities to the service of deceit and other sins and treacheries.

A woman is by no means dumber than a man, which is the problem, the source of her danger: she is of iron like a man yet on the chain she is a weak link. A broken chain is a weapon. Demon and devilish men alike know who to target. You begin to understand Marszowski's quip. It was she who masterminded the Massacre, that Italian, it had to be! Her and her preening son.

Which is why you're afraid she's going to clap you in her irons. If a man may find himself looking upon a woman again and again it is as if he multiplies himself into another copy-suitor. And everybody knows that a woman surrounded by looks may well serve as an unlocked gate to Hell. And worse yet, she keeps glancing back!

She's down on the far end of the long feasting table, so you reckon it can't be mere accident. It's gotten so bad you've been forgetting to mingle with your fellow lords, and you've only introduced yourself to a few less-consequential ones.

As the Royal Pantler wraps up his Catalog of Dishes, you lean over to your neighbor: "who's the one with the blue embroidery and the red cap?" you ask.

He squints and cranes his neck. "Mmm, that one?" You nod. "Oh, yes, she's pretty, but I've got no clue who her father is."

Only one way to find out. The wine allows you to beeline toward her when the time for dancing comes, and you attempt to speak with poise despite your half-numb lips. "My lady, may you honor me with a dance?"

She's about your age or slightly younger and sweeps a blond lock back under her headscarf; with her arms behind her back holding them bunched, her felt cape and fur cloak reveal a skinny little thing in an embroidered dress – not displeasing, though. Good teeth and full lips, you quickly notice, and about six inches shorter than you. You did not imagine her having brown eyes, which in their size could be as fierce as they could be doe-y. The rest of her features are rather soft save for some high cheekbones.

Her face flashes with surprise and her companions giggle. She looks you up and down with the tiniest knitting of her brow, but then she smiles: "you would do me the honor, my lord."

Her hard consonants tell you right away she must be Ruskaja. You switch into her tongue, using the lordly register rather than Tatjana's, may she sleep in Jesus: "then let us waste no time," you say, eliciting (dainty) howls from her ladies-in-waiting, who all start murmuring among themselves in Rosyjski. You catch "rich" and "charmer" and the wine makes you feel like the Goddamned cock of the walk. Ready!

You head to the dancefloor. The music starts up; it's a branle. You mimic a dance-proposal, removing your cap, and she extends her hand and it feels like someone just kicked you in the head. You hesitate – say something! – you can't say anything – but you do it. She just smiles and fails to meet your eyes. You can't tell if she can tell.

You move with the other couples into a circle. In this initial shuffle, you take advantage of the lack of eye contact. You stick to Rosyjski: "Are you nervous, my lady?"

"Me, my lord? Not particularly. Should I be nervous, my lord?" you can from your peripheral that she's turned her head to you.

"Heh. Maybe."

"Are you nervous, my lord?"

That's rhetorical, come now. Why lie? "Yes."

"Then why should I be nervous, my lord?"

That I've never really danced with a woman before to try and say something– "it's a secret."

"It's a secret, my lord?"

"Yes, my lady."

The circle breaks and you dance around each other, wagging your fingers and clapping on-beat. Your lungs are holding up thus far. "Pray I learn of your secret tonight, my lord?" She seems increasingly intrigued, wearing a permanent grin and tilting her chin up ever so slightly.

Gut-drop. "Hm, um, ah, I'm not sure, my lady."

"Perchance would the secret be your name and title, my lord?" she cocks her eyebrows as the circle reforms.

You look straight ahead as you realize the weight of such a revelation. "No, that's not my secret, my lady, I'm an open book there, heh." Don't worry so much about your station. "I am the Imperial Prince of Dubingiya and Birzhai, Stanislav Radzivil."

There's a brief hesitation before she answers. "I apologize, my lord, but – I thought there were only two?"

"I was in France studying til, oh, October? I've found my brothers to have made names for themselves."
She tuts as the circle breaks for another pass. "Ah! You do look like them, my lord."

Hopefully that's a good thing. "And now I– eh, well, you're keeping a secret, too, no? My lady."

"No secrets with me, my lord. My father's the Boyar Pavl Sapeg, of the arms of the Lis."

Marszowski has mentioned the name. You wrack your brain: from around Podlaskie – or is it Witebsk? – stalwart friends of the family, rather inconsequential on the whole.

"My cousin spent his page years at your uncle's, in fact, my lord," she adds.

The introductions break the wall down somewhat as the two of you move from dance to dance. More wine in between helps, too. You try to remain chaste despite glances of stocking when she lifts her dress to hop about and, intimidatingly, display near-Marszowskian footwork. She's probably in better shape than you! The conversation ebbs – mainly banal stuff about family members, Lithuania, the increasing wintriness, the political situation. And it turns out she's smart, too! Joking about electing "Tsar" Ivan and whatnot, how she'd love to learn Greek someday, how she's torn between Kalvin and the Pravoslav'ya.

It's intimidating. But alluring. You are listening to none of the advice. You feel like you're in one of those Netherlandish paintings where everything's topsy-turvy.

Only after the tourdion in a triple dance do you let it out. You're facing each other kicking out the galliard. "I'm ready to tell you my secret, my lady."

"Oh really, my lord?"

"I've only ever danced with a lady once or twice."

She lets out an unladylike guffaw and claps once. "You're a monk, my lord!" She smiles broadly. "But then you honor me so!" you dance a parallel approach with her as if tilting jousters.

"I saw you down the table–"

"As I saw you–"

And the knights pass each other! You dance a circle around each other, backs turned. You can't see her for a few seconds and miss her already. "And I thought," she says, as the revolution completes itself and the footwork starts anew. She's panting a bit. "I thought – I sure do hope that handsome fellow in the rich clothes comes and finds me for a dance."

Your heart tumbles like an acrobat, yet you're at the point of trying to stay cool. "Ah, so you only like me 'cause I'm a Radzivil?"

"No!" she holds back a laugh. "Well, it helps…"

You two share the joke, even as it rings in your ears somewhat. Is she really to be trusted?

The time for the volta is here and you realize what that means. "Still afraid to touch me, my lord?" she asks, as you dance sliding circles around each other. You swallow and feel your face burn. It shifts into the chase segment – she slows down and you speed up. She watches you with her big eyes over her shoulder. She lets you catch up and you link arms.

"You're still keeping a secret from me, Lady Sapega," you say, now unafraid to look her in the eye.

"And what may–"

Wait! It's here! You grab each other's arms at about the elbow and you begin to boost her jumps, raising her over your head. But then… You must place a knee under her seat, so as to leverage the jumps to climactic heights. You do so without thinking and only realize after the dance that, as you still hold hands – Ay, by God! Her seat!

As you drop down for the final bow-and-curtsy, you don't stop holding her hand. "I still don't know your Christian name, my lady," you say.

"Maryna."

 

[Rolman]

Somewhat obviously, the sexist-ass chroniclers of the period (or at least everybody I combed through) paid very little mind to women until their marriage, with the exception of those from the most prominent families. With that in mind, most historical women of your generation only crop up when already married. Soooooooooooo -- no they're not. This goes for Mariana (who, for example, already would've had a toddler-aged child OTL) and any potential fine ladies down the line.

Also, while I'm here, if you wanted to get a grip on Renaissance anxieties about the purity and power of women, zoom in on Bosch's Garden and see what you see!

 

[Sertorius]

I'm a bit unwell, but I'll gladly pitch in:

Rosjanki

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Rosyjski

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These are strictly Russian in meaning, not Ruthenian and not even period appropriate in fact. When speaking about things Ruthenian, Ruski should be used (and Rusinki for females) and when about things Russian, then Muscovite or Moskiewski should be used. It was a way to differentiate between true Ruski (the people of the Commonwealth) and despotic pretenders (Moscow). Plus one of the titles of the monarch was the Duke of Ruthenia, therefore no other ruler could be called that.

icon-clutching

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I actually like that, really shows, that you know, what you're talking about. For those, that don't get it, it's a way of addressing the Orthodox Church's religious practice in a mocking way to show everybody that it's old-fashioned, stupid and downright superstitious.

"I am the Imperial Prince of Dubingiya and Birzhai, Stanislav Radzivil."

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I don't understand the inconsistency with the naming convention here. Polish naming was generally used, yet you go for transliteration for some reason here. One more thing: the Radziwiłłs styled themselves to be one of the old Lithuanian princely families, therefore would omit the Imperial part, so as to not sound like just another nouveau riche which recently got their title from a foreign power, unless they are talking with German or other Western aristocrats (since an Imperial title would carry more prestige, than a Lithuanian one).

Pavl Sapeg,

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Ok, back to that naming convention... there is also the matter, that the Sapiehas themselves preferred their name to be spelled just like that, using an H instead of G.

Kalvin and the Pravoslav'ya.

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Kalvin stated like that refers only to the name of the theologian, although calling a somebody a kalwin was an informal way of naming a Reformed Church member. As to Orthodoxy, a better transliteration would be Pravoslavye or Pravoslavie.

several hundred meters

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Ok, but the metric system should stay at home, since it can sometimes ruin the immersion. Even the modern Imperial system would sound better, since feet and miles were being used at the time, though they were not the same as today.


[X] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.

 

[Kir the Wizard]

I'll add that, at the time of the quests, "Rosiyskyi" would likely be used by the monks and clergy in Kyiv, who dabbled greatly in making Hellenized versions of local words, and would not become widespread in Moscow itself until the second half of the 17th century: the vassalization of Cossack Ukraine and the following increase in cultural exchange, the establishment of control over the Kyiv Orthodoxy, the 1674 Synopsys (a Muscovite-specialized history book, written in Kyiv, but recounting the rise of Muscovy from the times of Meshech or Mosoch, seen as the founder of both Moscow and Poland), and the move of prominent clergy, such as Stephan Yavorsky and Theothan Prokopovych, to the north, trying to establish their influence on how the tsardom would be reformed. So, until the second half of the 17th century, after the Nikonite reforms and Old Believer rebellion, you'd be unlikely to hear the Hellenized "Rossiya" anywhere but amongst the Kyiv upper classes, but not so much at the court of the Tsar in Moscow, not until the later years of Alexei I's reign, or Princess Sophia's regency (as the Hellenized forms can be seen written on their royal portraits). There may be some discrepancies (like people in both Commonwealth and Muscovy, Ivan the Terrible included, trying to build upon the etymological similarity between the name of the ancient tribe of Roxolanii and Rosias), but usually in 16th and early 17th centuries the local variant Rus', or its Latinized variants, such as Ruscia/Ruzzia/Ruthenia/Russia (pronounced in Latin as "Roose-ia", rather than "Rush-ah") were more commonly used.

And that's not even going into how "Rus specifically" would mean Kyiv if used in local sources, and Galicia if used nearly everywhere else. If you ever handled the many Burgundies of the 15th-17th centuries' maps, the many Ruthenias can be a similar pain in the head, where you can not even rely on distinct titles, but mostly on tendencies in bibliography and cartography. I can find maps with Galicia described as, alternatively, "the" Russia, Red Russia, or Black Russia, as the names "migrate" over maps in the course of, seemingly, a single decade.

 

[Rolman]

You feel very good about it. Shockingly. Sir Marszowski taught you how to be a man; all it took was his urging to bring it to the forefront, you hope.

In the nightmares you find yourself no longer fleeing down the streets of Paris but instead turning about and slaying the pursuing wolf-man. Yet, always, from some dark corner emerges another, an ambush, and you awake as snout meets throat.

So it never gets better. You used to pray on it and think on it and walk streets and gardens whenever possible. Now you must work and become a prince, the Prince. You find it funny that you've technically failed in your duties – you've spoken to only a few of the lords and clerics in favor of practicing rhetoric, though according to Marszowski word of a brief meeting with Lord Firlej have perked up ears in castle and camp alike. You try to ignore the words of cousin Sierotka.

You're just being paranoid. But– isn't that the point?

You sit in the Sejm with a secret in your breast. You have nearly memorized your own script – the speech ought to seem spontaneous, you calculate – and as an angry bishop delivers remarks to cheers and jeers you realize that he is doing exactly the same. This is how these people live; these are no teenage intrigues in the Louvre.

You let a Firlej imitator give a little oratory and decide to wait for a real ultra so the crowd will be angrier. I'm not in this for pride's sake, after all, am I?

When a lieutenant of the Cardinal's makes a resolute stand against Protestantism you realize your moment has come.

You begin to rise and of course the nerves hit now. But it's too late to stop.

"My lords!" you bellow, projecting as far as you possibly can without a voice crack.

Dozens of heads whip and turn around at once and people from further out begin yelling indistinctly. A few closer ones you can hear: "shut up! The Radziwiłł is talking!" "The Litwin is talking, so quiet!"

Time to preach what you practiced. A speech such as yours will be weighty, perhaps over an hour long, filled with referential digressions and philosophical discourses as expected – it is important to show what you know as well, after all.

But at its core, your oration is based upon…

[] A stand for the protection of rights and privileges new and old.

[] A plea for tolerance based upon Biblical study.

[] Your recounting of St. Bartholomew's Day.

[] A forward-looking, humanist dream rooted in the Classics.

[] Write-in.

Nobody worry, you'll get to read (most of) it.

 

[Rolman]

"Who here does not know of that infamous St. Bartholomew's Day in Paris?" Already the Protestants and reformists are "hear hear!"-ing, while the conservatives begin to groan or let out theatrical laughs. Who said anything about killing anybody? one yells, mad Firlej's the one with the cannon! His side cheers him. The clerics sit statuesque, shaking their heads. They start leaning into each other's ears.

Press on. "Who here has not heard of its savagery, of the wanton bloodlust and ghoulish rapine, an affront to God and man alike, making Attila an almsman and Scipio a most merciful conqueror? Those who know of my life and doings will be aware that I myself was at my studies in Paris that black night."

Pause, let them hang. "And I will tell you all the truth, I swear to the Lord and place my honor upon it, too, of what I saw with my own two eyes and heard with my own two ears. For that nightmare was no mere dream."

From the back a voice shouts: What truth matters before an angry god?

In general, though, the elation of the pro-edict camp is louder than the antis' cries of consternation; you have staked your claim and announced your position and you are of no small importance. Like the tides, a wave of shushing follows the periods of reaction; they are truly listening.

You somehow raise your voice even louder to talk over them; you're getting winded and are trying desperately not to cough. "And those broadsheets tell very few lies, my lords!"

The Cardinal-Nuncio rises and shouts in Latin: "to speak in such poor faith, lord prince!" it's hard to hear him over your supporters shouting back at him. "I have spent time in England during their troubles and during the Empire's, too; You as a brother Catholic ought to know the souls on the line in matters as these, yet that a conversion can never be forced!" The dig is noted by all. "We speak not of war, but of correction, gradual and peaceful!"

Translations are shouted out for the less-fortunate gentlemen as the Cardinal's side cheers.

You, on the other hand, feel your back shiver and your jaw turn rusty as you stumble attempting to speak truly off-the-cuff. The anti's begin an attempt to laugh you out as your side cheers you on; the assembly field has grown the loudest it's been all day. You finally manage a retort, making sure to speak Polish. "Indeed, Your Eminence, we are of like minds on matters of faith. But– but the brother Catholics– the Catholics of the land of France, in their conceited frustration to bring the Huguenots back into the fold, threw out what you and I alike know of this!" you cry, to the expected reactions. "Turning to slaughter when they could not win their consciences through persuasion and holy grace." You turn to the Calvinist section and extend an arm as if Cicero. "Do you Protestants waver?"

No! They were nearly in unison there.

"And it does take but a week or two for a plague to spread; who truly can believe that all men possess the fortitude to watch a so-called heretic dance about them and propagate their creed?"

You try to cap it: "hence peace must be enforced by law!" You're a little shaken and know that the cardinal threw you off – nearly embarrassed you – but that you're most certainly still in the fray. The show must go on. Translations are muttered into the cardinal's ear. He shouts a reply of his own that you cannot hear, looking frustrated yet comfortable, and sits back down.

A shock through your neck and temples! You realize how off-topic they've gotten you!

"Furthermore, my lords!"

Do you turn your attention to…

[] The fact that nobles were specifically targeted.

[] The fact that the orchestrators were to be found, yet-unpunished, at the highest levels of power.

[] The scenes of brutality.

[] The preventability of the Huguenot Wars in general.

[] Write-in.