Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

"It is not just in the cruelties and tortures inflicted upon the bodies of innocent folk that we may find abomination before God and the laws of nature and honor!" you continue.

"The first sight that met my eyes during the evil night in Paris – though it was one of the smaller terrors – was perhaps the most alarming of all: the body of Admiral Coligny, handless and headless with its manhood carved off–" the rancor begins anew, and this time several clerics rise from their seats and shout inaudibilities at you. A few men on both sides are being held back by their compatriots. Back off.

"Imagine, then," you try and reroute, "the murder and public parading of one of our great senators or hetmen through the streets of Kraków by a mob of fanatics!" Hands are on hilts as you launch into a digression on Erasmus in an attempt to inject some soothing boredom.

Thankfully, you succeed, with the bishops even seeming mildly interested. You manage to stay on-topic while keeping relatively inoffensive. It doesn't matter if they know what you're doing if it's working. The crowd is reduced to a grumble by the time you steer the speech back on course. "...and in the Empire there was indeed a most grim and brutal massacre of the minority, stemmed by treaty alone."

Another heckler: mere treaties did not stop the Protestants from their slaughter of monastics in France! A cry of rage arises from the anti-edict clusters.

Thankfully, you had prepared for this line of questioning. You reckon you can strike him down: "indeed, it did not! But ne'er did those so-called pacifying edicts in France mend the wounds and the pangs of vengeance placed in the hearts of Catholic and Reformed by blood already spilled. We well know that the peoples of our–" you try not to say Commonwealth! – "of– of our land, they are most honorable – we are most honorable – and by that virtue would our hearts never rest in civil rancor. Therefore we must mend our fences pre facta et non in postea! We are a people of the law!"

Most of your side cheer, though besides the usual detractors a few lordlings cry hypocrite at your magnate's privilege, your ability to occupy many estates royal and feudal alike with often the most minimal of opposition. You reckon some of them want war to enrich themselves. They must want to. They were always around in France. Little better than peasant outlaws.

Well, damn them to Hell, let's talk about one or two of them – and get back on track too!

"And never, never believe that the murderers and the wreckers and the fanatics are without faces, my lord! No, among our very ranks are those who would foment chaos and civil war, it is inevitable, it shall always be true; such men must be stopped!"

The other side hates your implication but your supporters cheer louder. The bishops, judging by their faces and spluttering mouths have curdled into a group of extremely sour men. You realize you're pushing it and wonder if it's a good thing.

"Coligny was not the only one, my lords, though they seem to make engravings of only he!" You point outward into the crowd. "Let us not forget that the Huguenot noblemen were slaughtered in the Louvre – I'd have witnessed it were it not for a quirk of my being elsewhere –" they don't like that. "In– in the very halls of the palace were they struck down! I saw the dried blood. Forget not that they were there for a royal wedding, though, in the royal palace, under royal protection! Does royal protection merely vanish as a vapor, or as a miasma?"

A few laugh. Your side backs you up once more: No! Enough time to feel like an acrobat taking a fall and landing gracefully. You're sweating a bit and your lungs heave. You wheeze but continue. "It is men who strip such things away! And not the common mob, I say again – men!"

"Well, let me tell you about men such as these!"

You're thinking of Prince Aleksandar, but will you say so?

[] Yes, and take the opportunity to endorse the Emperor.

Framed as an olive branch, a unity candidate, and good for trade. Needed in a time of such rancor?

[] Yes, but say nothing of the Emperor.

Many already have made a decision regarding his involvement. Why push the election at a time like this?

[] No.

You will instead have to focus on figures such as the Queen Mother and the Guises.

[] Imply his involvement.

May be viewed as underhanded.

 

[Rolman]

Speech day has been changed from Jan 4 to Jan 7 to line up with the historical day 2 of the '73 Convocation. I found out I was just barely off and it was really bothering me.

I'm pretty sure, in the first update, it says you were born in 1552 instead of 1551. I won't edit it. I'm a mystery to myself

also update momentarily

 

[Rolman]

"Although the beasts are many, the Prince Aleksandar Walezy — who some would call candidate to our august throne, the caretaker of our newfound yet ancient Liberty – he runs in the very fore of the wolfpack! Yes, he all but said to my face: 'Prince Stanisław, indeed it was us, for to slaughter thousands is to but cut out a tumor!'"

Your side groans and so too do your opponents, but all are much quieter than usual. "Indeed, over everything he will place himself and his people and the realm! He and his powder-faced mignons would turn this place into another France, where the King rules by fiat, their sejms hobbled and half-fettered!"

You explain the situation. "His brother the King immature and unwise, his Mother a Jezebel without remorse – an unleashed harlot ruling all but sui juris – all three conspired to bring about the madness! All three convinced of the rightness of their acts!"

You're genuinely angry! That night, those people, those monsters! The thought of them in your country!

You shake your head theatrically. "What a mournful irony that those Western lands, fonts of wisdom and enlightenment for ourselves and the whole world , allow themselves to descend into such barbarism. It has seemingly befallen we Polonians, we Lithuanians, to now take up the torch!"

They're still somewhat quiet. What could they want? You wager a guess: "I know not which man ought to become our next king. What I do know is that never can we allow tyranny into our home!" Your supporters cheer with renewed vigor. There we are, that's less offensive.

You stretch out the minutes, finding opposition and support alike becoming feebler and feebler as your oratory winds and curls. You make reference to the wars across Germany that turn the Empires' princes against each other, of the heads that rolled in the Alps and the tense English settlement -- all in the name of devotion to God.

Like so many before you, you finally peter out after well over an hour of speaking. Such an unceremonious end is to be expected as men grow hungry, thirsty, bored, or drunk; you feel as if you did well, on the whole.

Sir Marszowski seems to think so. "That– that was something, lord prince!" he says, jumping around you like how he did a few days before. "I've seen men of thirty speak with less confidence! Though you lost me on the bit about Diocletian and the Church Fathers."

You chuckle. "Well, that's alright, if you liked it you liked it."

"I did! Oh! And," he cups a hand around his ear. "I have heard – a little somebody somewhere told somebody told me – that you danced with a Sapieha."

"Oh no…"

"And, not only did you dance with a Sapieha, but you danced with nobody else that night!"

Oh! He's right. Ohhhhhhhhhhh no! He's right! "I did do that, didn't I?"

He clucks. ""Aw, don't be so embarrassed. It's a decent choice– she's a decent choice, pardon me," he beams. "Which one?"

"One of Paweł's daughters," you say tiredly, fearful of hours of teasing that could come. "Her name is Mariana."

Your fencing master seems to run some calculations through his head, eyes looking upward and darting left and right. "Alright… Alright… There are certainly worse choices out there…"

"But?"

"But, well, that's a lieutenant family of ours, is how I'd put it, lord prince. She'd bring some land of your own, some money, some prestige," he judges your reaction. "But you could do better?"

You frown. He gestures for you to wait. "That..! Is not to say you cannot see her again, lord prince, not that that's my choice after all." He's using his calming tone; you recognize it. "But there are more out there. That's all I'm saying. You like her?"

You nod.

"Well, I thought: 'you better!' with a face like that," he jokes. "You look like I'm telling you to annul your marriage. Come now, tell me about her!"

You do. She's smart, as in, speaks Latin, knows her politics, knows her falcons and buzzards. She's pretty… She's a remarkably good dancer… Her eyes are huge and have the effect of round shot on you… You've never seen Sir Marszowski look so happy.

"Oh, youth, joyous youth, lord prince!" as always though: "but keep an open mind! Imagine the ecstasy of that first dance again and again, with a big fat dowry waiting for you at the end."

He's got a point; after all, you're the one who's the thing to be sought-after, not she. You have the pick of the litter; you deserve to be as confident as you feel at times.

"Lord prince, what do you think of heading back east before pursuing a courtship with the Sapieha girl? We can set up a courier relay for letters, use our men or the Poczta. Their family's seat is at Kodeń, if I'm not mistaken – you can even see her on the way back to Dubinki!" Marszowski offers concession after concession; you have no doubt that he means them, too. But you have no illusions about his true opinion.

[] "I suppose I won't die having to send letters for a few months."

You wonder what her handwriting will look like.

[] "Let's see her on the way back home, then!"

People will talk.

[] "Ugh, maybe you're right, ma bon Chevalier."

This doesn't have to mean the end.

"You know I'd have never been able to say no to you in any event, lord prince," says Sir Marszowski, "and not just because I cannot tell you no!"

You wave away that kind of talk. "I can handle myself, Sir Marszowski, and you say that I should step up? Maybe you step down," you jest, but not facetiously.

"No, you're right to call me on it," replies Marszowski, flashing rare bashfulness. "Just hard for me to think of you as lord prince, lord prince." He sighs. "Servant unto death," he looks you in the eye.

"Thank you."

"Because women aren't necessarily to be–"

"Trusted, yes, I know." But she seems so… not untrustworthy. More competent than a good few male courtiers you've met in your day, you think. And what malice did she display whatsoever? Totally nonplussed by your name, you feel, though the more you think the more you doubt yourself. No matter. Where it goes, it goes, and her motivations are her own.

Such diversions cannot last in the aftermath of a prince's debut – especially when done so loudly and boldly. Though the reception of your speech is as divisive as its content, the one commonality between those singing praises and those spitting venom is the name Radziwiłł on their tongues.

This makes you the belle of the ball, with a constant stream of gentleman callers. No longer do you venture out into the Sejm camp, wading through horseshit and the midwinter mud – now they appear at your chamber door.

This all feels quite odd. To be approached as an authority, to be courted by this power player and that, to have a breathless rider in yellow-black livery deliver you your copy of the family seal. At Marszowski's urging you leave yourself open to any and all comers, letting he and his little squadron do the vetting.

The first thing you notice about him is that he arrived entirely alone. Not even a single bodyguard, lieutenant, manservant – nobody. He's handsome and on the cusp of middle age, with a high forehead and well-styled mustache.

You respectfully rise from your seat as he drops into a poised bow. "Your Serene Highness, if I may have the honor – I am the Royal Secretary Jan Zamoyski of the Jelita."

You offer your hand which he quickly and firmly accepts. "A pleasure, Lord Zamoyski, how is it I may help you?"

You have been expecting him; the chief advocate and famous face for men of his means, as Marszowski described him, as powerful as any crown marshal or wizened senator. The uncomfortable middle: too prideful to become sworn men, too strong to be ignored, too weak to resist families such as yours. They are the agitators for the new system – first the king is curbed, then the magnates and princes.

You scratch your chin and gesture at the chair now constantly kept opposite yours, such is the flow of guests. "Please do be seated, Lord Zamoyski," you order, finding each time a little easier.

"Thank you, Your Serene Highness. And if I may complement your oration," he smiles, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. "I think I may speak for many – and with all due respect, of course – that there was a good deal of anxiety regarding you. Like you, I am on the side of the law and of peace between noblemen."

He says your full honorific yet is slumped forward like he's in a tavern. "I am glad to hear that, my lord," you say, trying to make something of him.

"And, like you, I am concerned with laws yet unwritten."

"Indeed…"

"...In my position I see such laws oft well before they are even twinkles in the eye of Sejm or Senat," says Zamoyski. "If we only had a King. So let me be frank: this ship cannot sail out of control." He explains: "His late Majesty hadn't the time to plan this far ahead beyond the new union."

"Lord Zamoyski, I am greatly aware of these uncharted waters."

"Greatly aware or made greatly aware, lord prince?" He assumes a stiffer, more formal posture in his seat. "Truly I mean nothing by it, but: you have truly developed a lay of the land in just, oh, four months?"

You remain silent. You could always dismiss him–

"You need a friend, Your Serene Highness."

"I have ample advisors, Lord Zamoyski, thank you."

"Friends, lord prince. You are well-advised; I am only here because of that marvelous speech – I know that you are capable and of influence and can be a help to me, as I can most certainly be a help to you. I shall be your friend. I would very much like to be." You notice his crow's feet, his laugh lines. He ages when he smiles.

Flatterer! Flatterer? Yet he's still talking to you like this! Yet… he seems to really mean it. "On the matter of the edict we are most certainly friends already, no, lord prince?"

"Allies, Lord Zamoyski," you manage to stand your ground. "Of like minds on one particular matter, sir."

"Yes. Allies. We are only just getting acquainted, I grow presumptuous, forgive me." He doesn't really care if you forgive him, you reckon. "Majority rule, lord prince!"

"Pardon?"

"Majority rule in the case of the free election. Should the principle of viritim stand. Do you support it, lord prince?" Viritim lets the rabble in, but it seems like it'll pass. Thus, you decide to nod in approval.

Zamoyski pays you no mind. "Standing before us lies the opportunity to elect a king and legislate nearly as if we are one," says Lord Zamoyski. "Never have us nobles had such chances!" He begins to form shapes with his hands, swirls with his fingers. He leans in again. "Which is why we – I – need you, lord prince."

Need you? "Say more," you wave him on.

"Well, anyone savvy would know that speeches such as yours move hearts and change minds. Our edict – we call it an edict – it's only a mere promise by us, free lords in free assembly. And I believe in the Holy Church same as you, lord prince."

In your excitement for peace and toleration you forgot that Lord Zamoyski is exactly correct. You've been thinking of the tabled measure as a French pacification edict; rather, it is merely a compact between assembled peers, binding upon honor and before God but not in the realm's law books. It will take the signature of the new King and an item in his pacta conventa.

"And you saw how rabid some of the opposition is. If any man may obstruct the proceedings, how then may we ever make tolerance truly law? How could we ever stem the king's wishes when just one lackey may cease it all?" He seems to be embarking on some spontaneous remarks of his own. "Our Res Publica would scarcely survive its next crisis, imagine if the Senate of Cato–"

Regain control! "Surely one man cannot count on being able to withstand the pressure of all the rest?" seems an obvious question to ask.

"Short of quite literally killing him? Well, I don't see why not," replies Zamoyski as he rubs his fingers together – money. "There is much to gain from being the bad apple. We lay this groundwork here, lord prince, we merely need the new king's signature and this realm'll be ours."

Whose ours is that anyways? And wait – doesn't Zamoyski want Aleksandar?

There aren't really any advisors you can turn to right this moment. Do you say something…

[] Positive.

How else may we expect to govern? This reform is simple practicality, and you see no reason why you shouldn't support it. After all, you and yours could rally all of Lithuania behind your banner and form a powerful bloc, one in need of only a few Crownlanders to defect to ensure Radziwiłł demi-rule. Visions of kingmaking dance about.

[] Negative.

To be sure, this will only benefit his middle section, his slim majority. The ones below always grab at anything they can, and you can feel his hand pulling your pantleg this very moment. The ones below even them will be manipulated easily, as lordlings are – all to the detriment of those who can *afford* a disruption.

[] Noncommittal.

Hold it! This is the first time you hear of this. Nevermind the fact that he's projecting into the future while talking like it's today, you simply do not have enough information at the moment. Tell him that.

 

[Rolman]

Zamoyski smiles broadly. "I knew you must be a man of wit and character, lord prince. I reckon this will benefit you, me, the realm." He leans back in his chair; you sense a tinge of relief on his part. "Some of my supporters call me Gracchus but I know little of taxes and city-building and, God bless them, I'm not in it for the commoners."

"But you appreciate the Liberty."

"Yes. What nobleman cannot? But things are not quite perfect yet here in the Crownlands."

Was it his tone? Or simply the fact he's a Crownlander complaining after. "My land has been cut in two, sir, are your people not enriched by this?"

"They are, lord prince. I will not lie; and I cannot lie that, however selfish, this is a good thing for those I represent."

Honesty is refreshing out here. Zamoyski continues: "But neither you nor I benefit from the great houses of the Crownland running amok, enriching themselves, squatting on royal land, stomping making themselves into petty kings."

"You are aware you are more or less describing my kinfolk, Lord Zamoyski? And rudely."

"Yes, lord prince, I may just be." How fearless! "But what transpires in the Grand Duchy is of little concern to me. Lord prince – amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei."

Don't let him know you don't exactly know. "Name your inimici."

Zamoyski laughs with some mischief and adopts a harsh whisper. "They'll hear me." He straightens up. "I'll leave it to that redhead fellow that's always in your ear." Wow. "But, really, there's servants. Servants can be bribed. This is no Sejm tent, but…"

You don't like the way he's dancing around. You feel a tinge of the sanguinous humor. "Do you or do you not want the Frenchman, Lord Zamoyski?"

He raises his hands in deference. "You value the truth, that's clear enough, lord prince."

"So were you lying about my speech?"

"No. The bits on tolerance rang true. Notice how quiet everyone got when you started up on Aleksandar? He's the favorite." His palms clap down on his thighs. "Favorites are favorites. I'd want the Prince of Legnica but he's a drunken lout. Your people want the Emperor or one of his pups or tyrant Iwan," he clears his throat. "But let us not argue over these things, lord prince."

"The Iwan thing is…" Please do *not* give away that it's a ploy. You realize for a brief moment that you are clearly still learning. Why on God's green earth did France have to only teach you manners, logistics, and the extent of human cruelty? "The Iwan thing is irrelevant because Iwan won't win."

"It's strange, is all–"

No more, no more, you feel that sinking feeling of imminent defeat again. "Lord Zamoyski, you may go." He blinks rapidly. "I am glad we can agree on a few things and perhaps we will be friends regarding them," you say, no, declare.

He seems remarkably unoffended. Or is pretending to be. "Very well – perhaps I pried, lord prince." You're not apologizing, though. "May we meet again without an election to squabble over!" He smiles. "I believe we agree more than we disagree by and large." You both rise in uniform and a mildly tense handshake is exchanged. "God be with you, sir."

"And you as well, sir."

Words can be like dry powder. Or maybe more like the spark that lights it? An errant phrase, a stray statement of intent, a listing of likes and dislikes – peasants talk of anything and everything as they nit-pick each other or beat their clothes clean on stones.

But not you. Not us. For your kind, whenever in public, there is always a dance afoot, twirling and on tiptoes; a falsely-placed foot can lead to a little trip or a bone-breaking tumble.

Lord Zamoyski clearly put himself to work making all aware of your receptiveness to the prospect of majority rule under viritim – a Radziwiłł's voice is louder than a jurist's, louder than the petty lords arguing for unanimity, for total equality before their betters. The Sejm camp was abuzz with this revelation, praising its practicality or damning the seemingly-imminent death of the leveler lordlings' faction. Though this matter would be settled through and before the new king, many whisper that things were now set in stone.

You feel a little silly, a little taken advantage of. Even if you're on his side regarding this. The days pass. You learn that an increasing number of your fellow Lithuanians are turning to Aleksandar, despite your warnings. The hope for the return of the lost voivodeships and rolled-back privileges is a source of great desperation – they'll go for anyone who feels like a safe bet. A letter from your father says it's increasingly turning into herding cats, but emphasizes that that fact changes nothing for your current task.

On the morning of the 23rd, things were finally settled as the day's Sejm Marshal stood before the assembly, parchments in hand.

By the fifth article your victorious faction is roaring. The Marshal screams to be heard:

"Because in our kingdom there is not little but great disagreement over matters of faith regarding the Christian religion, for this reason we desire the prevention of any violent disputes between the camps from arising, as has been seen in other kingdoms!"

You join the obligatory Hear-hear!

"Item one!" Then the obligatory shushing.

"Therefore under oath we promise ourselves and our descendants forever by our good faith, honor, and conscience: although we are of different faiths, we will keep peace between us. We do not want to shed blood because of the practice of this or that religion or changes in worship services!"

Huzzah!

"Item two – neither will we allow one nobleman to threaten the other over matters of faith to punish him, confiscate his goods, imprison him, or expel him!"

Praise God!

"Item three – nor shall we aid any higher authority in such activities in any way!"

Long live the Liberty!

"Item four – If anyone should try to force or shed blood for reasons of faith, we will oppose that, even if he should present a higher order for it!"

Together we are strong!

A glorious day. With pride and some pomp did you affix the Radziwiłł seal to the document; the "Confederation of Warszawa" has a good ring to it. Perhaps only the interfaith wedding at Notre Dame – rioters outside be damned – did you feel as hopeful for a country's future. The Massacre was six days later. Made it feel even worse. Somehow. Hm. But these people – your people – they seem different. May the barrel remain untapped.

Of course the next thing to do is get utterly plastered. You're in the haze with the rest, sliding and tripping through the muddy camp mocking the bishops and cardinals and Papal so-and-so's up in the fake Wawel. The decorum is gone; Christian names are brought out.

Sir Marszowski's got his arm around you as the two of you took a breather away from the thickest carousing. "Jan Zamoyski!" he exclaims, "and it was Jan Zamoyski calling on you! Don't you – lord prince, just 'cause he's Royal Secerre– secer– se-cruh-tary, that's a powerful man right there! Knows everything an' everybody."

"Aw well that's bad cuz I absolutely told him to pissoff!"

"What?! Why?"

"Well I got on him for wanting that French bastard and then he got on we Lithuanians for the whole joke about Iwan–"

"Oh by God what did you say?"

"Nothing insane or insulting I just was pretty abrupt is all. But he pressed me! Me! Alright? I tried to drop it but then he pressed me still. Kurwa! Nobody– cunts never treat me with respect!"

Marszowski cackles. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh an' look at that fire! Well yknow it's gained, no, it's earned not – kurwa. Long as you didn't fuck anything."

You're laughing too. "I think I read your meaning; no I dint fuck anything."

"Standin' up for yourself – issa fine line…" he's wearing his punchline face. "Bes' not be abrupt when Firlej asks you 'bout his daughter–"

"You know everything before I do!"

"Lieutenants talk to lieutenants yknow lord prince! Grapevine aint an actual plant." You ooo-aaa and laugh at yourself as he jumps up and clicks his heels in a very sober fashion. Andrzej Marszowski of the Cholewa: human tomcat. "And! Grapevine graped that Konstanty Ostrogski's itchin' for you to meet his youngest girl, Elżbieta," he says, "don't confuse 'er with sad widow Elżbieta Ostrogska, God bless 'er; this one's 'bout your age."

"Ay by Maria this is ridiculous. What's the Firlej girl's name?"

"Jadwiga. Kinda funny, no, lord prince?" Would that make you the new Jagiełło? "You're the… The… You're the pick a' the litter!"

The news has sobered you up a little. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Your Mariana, f'course!" he says, blocking your path and making you halt. You can smell the gorzała on him. "I know I advise an' discourage, advise an' discourage – but love, lord prince, beautiful love! Can't deny you of it! I'm confessin'!"

Time to Marszowski Marszowski. You try to convincingly spit it out with venom. "Unacceptable. You are relieved, Sir Marszowski."

His jaw drops. Got him! "Wha–"

"You've deceived me on matters of my marriage and oh my God–" you burst out laughing. "I'm sorry!" Cannot stop laughing.

"Damn you to Hell, lord prince," says Marszowski with a shake of his head. "Well-played." He looks a little sour. "Wait now why get me on this, now a' all times? Right when I come clean."

"Honestly – must win the game sometime," you say, head starting to feel light again as the shock dissipates. "Tired of bein' the last to know, bein' the victim… The victim of all this, ah, all this fuscans. Latin…"

"I'd wag my finger at you again were you a victim, lord prince! Welcome to Polonia. You'll learn."

"I'll learn."

You dreamt that night even though you were drunk. And it's always one of two: it was the Moncontour dream this time, not the new one, not Paris. The Hugues – in their thousands – are all crying and begging and praying, a few of them standing tall in proud silence, but the pikes and knives and axes and cudgels laid them all down. A few got lined up and shot with muskets and crossbows as a mercy. One of the tough ones wasn't going down and screamed Am I your Sebastian Papist am I your Sebastian until they got him through the neck. They didn't let you kill anybody but you stood and watched and the blood flowed downhill about a half-inch high over your boots. Except you start sinking. Slowly, slowly, and suddenly all your comrades are gone and the Protestants are standing up and speaking through cut throats, reattaching missing heads and hands, cursing you to Hell, your wife-to-be, your unborn children. The tip of a halberd hovers toward your eye closer and closer and –

How are you so happy when you're awake? In relative terms, perhaps. As usual, you try to block it out; some brandy at breakfast and port after lunch smooth things over. Inhale, exhale. You held no sword that day.

The strangest thing about that day was how Prince Aleksandar was there. How he tried to save as many men as possible, or the noble ones at least. People change. Or maybe just reveal an inner nature, the nature of Cain, Eve, Attila, the false Caesar Iwan.

Eastwards to Lithuania and Dubinki, through the pine and spruce and birch, across the rolling hills and miles of plateaus – but not before seeing her again. You will see her before you cross the border, in her castle like a fabled princess at Kodeń. Her. Her. Which her? You know which her. The first woman you ever really… Noticed. In the true sense, that is. The French ones seemed so far away, so abstract, but the Lady Mariana Sapieha of the Lis – you kept repeating her full name for some reason – is very real. Very very real.

But now there's more. Not that there are really more, but, well, politics waits for nobody. Marszowski's gone back to advocating for keeping options open and politics in mind, but you know well as anybody that drink leads to truth-telling. You won't be able to meet Lady Firlej for a bit, while Lady Ostrogska should be in Kijów or thereabouts.

Well?

[] Write to Lord Firlej asking to begin correspondence with his daughter, Jadwiga.

Now there would be a strange – yet potent – match. Daughter of the leading Protestant matched with the third-in-line to the quasi-throne of the Grand Duchy. You've heard she's extremely well educated, eloquent, and shrewd. Apparently on the sickly side, though, and as religious as her father.

[] Write to Lord Ostrogski expressing interest in meeting his daughter, Elżbieta.

Everybody says the young Elżbieta is hellbent on not turning out like her trodden-upon elder cousin, Elżbieta Halszka. Thus they say she's difficult and mannish. But is that just the slander spoken by those fearful of a girl with a real fire?

[] No. Mariana and Mariana alone.

Such passion. Expressing interest in Firlej or Ostrogska does not exclude Mariana from the running, though.

It's a cute little palace they've got here at sleepy Kodeń, so close to the Bug you can hear her babbling. Well-fortified and well-crafted, despite some glaring signs of a tight budget.

You ride up to the gate with your entourage into the arms of waiting Sapiehowie. A downright ancient man seems to be their leader. Such big eyes – wait.

"I would bow if it wouldn't kill me, Your Serene Highness," he laughs to himself in a voice that's still strong.

You drop down from the saddle and give a near-subservient bow. "Lord Paweł Sapieha of the Lis?"

"Indeed, Your Serene Highness, 'the Never-Old,'" he smiles with an impressive number of remaining teeth. "Picked that nickname up back during Hussite times."

Oh, oh, that's a joke. Hussites were… Laugh! You laugh. "You may drop the styling, my lord." You try to jest back: "No man is superior to the hero of Grunwald himself."

He liked that one. "Please, into my home, lord prince, my daughter is in the great hall."

Immediately servants begin to take cloaks and caps from you and your men, as grooms lead the horses off for water and fodder. Old Paweł talks about this and that – very curious about the Confederation, his health naturally detained him – "I remember when Luther did it, you know. I was already a man grown. Praise God, the slaughter won't find us yet."

The jokes continue, as does the exchange of information on this and that. Whether or not the Tatars and barbarian Muscovites are acting up on the fringes of your homeland, how you met Jans Zamoyski and Firlej but not Kiszka or Sieniawski.

But right before reaching the great hall the old man's countenance drops and he asks to pull you aside; naturally, you agree. "I am very protective of my women, lord prince. They should know that they are worth their weight in gold – many daughters are – but a disobedient one is nothing but lead."

Well, this is a change. He's no dodderer. Is it an act? "Why tell me this, sir?"

"That she is indeed obedient and a good young lady. I take your courtship of my youngest very seriously, lord prince. I will certainly father no more children. You must understand the implications for me to marry into a family as esteemed as yours."

"I am rather quite serious."

"Rather or quite?" he smiles his half-toothless smile. "Oh, nevermind. You are here, lord prince, and that's all that matters. And she speaks of you very well."

That was somewhat offensive. How come people keep thinking they can talk to an Imperial Prince like this? Well, as Marszowski said once: you may well be a newborn out here. Respectfully, you're not your brothers yet, lord prince.

It thaws when you see her, though. She approaches and, with a near-hidden hand by her hip, gives you a little wave. She smirks before breaking eye contact and curtseying deeply – much more ladylike.

You smile and bow. "My lady."

"My lord."

You cannot stop smiling. "It is very good to see you again," you say.

"Likewise, my lord." She looks over her shoulder, at her father.

This is very guarded. She is nervous; you have never seen her nervous. "What do you reckon we should do, my lord?"

You keep on smiling, but you can feel the concern that you're wearing on your face. "Well, if I may defer, my lady, I am in your home, your land." You want to get her out of here and quick, let her do something only she wants to do.

"Well, I have a new buzzard I'd like to break in. But I've also heard of a fine stag in our woods."

She hunts? You love the hunt! Despite the killing. What can't she do? But falconry sounds fun, too.

You look over your shoulder at the old man. Mercifully, he gives a shrug. "Three chaperones, and extra huntsmen should it come to it," is all he says.

[] "Let's go for some falconry, my lady."

[] "Now I'd love to see a lady hunt."

Will begin "Totus Floreo" Part Two.

 

[Rolman]

It was against your better judgment to come so close to the diabolic. But it was in that early winter dusk that you found yourself inviting a Milanese alchemist into the night's folwark guesthouse. You found him on the road in a covered wagon with a broken axle. As is the nature of a man born under the Crab, you moved quickly to help. He somehow knew that you were a Lithuanian prince despite no indication of such. That made you think he has Sight, and that's what piqued your interest. Ever since the apparition on your would-be deathbed, you've taken matters of the supernatural much more seriously. Even if this is of dubious piety.

Your French makes him a little hard to follow when he speaks of alchemy and astrology, but he asks to divine using playing cards. Something from his homeland called tarocco.

You agree.

He peers over five cards, arranged in the shape of an X. "No reversals, that's good…" He begins.

"Your first card, lord prince, the Valet of Cups: you are a man of truth and wit, but perhaps a dreamer, perhaps unrealistic. You may be susceptible to deceit and persuasion – take care! Yet the cup near-always signifies some abundance, a filling of vessels; you may just refresh your fellows, your family, your country." Not bad.

"First atout. The card of Justice. It is as it sounds, by and large. You will stand for the law as much as you will defend your conscience. Likewise, justice will find you."

"The Four of Coins. But you do not strike me as a greedy man, respectfully, lord prince. Not after the first two draws. But it may not mean greed in material things – perhaps a hoarding of some sort, a drawing inwards, a clutching of what you possess already."

You gulp at the next one; you had been trying to ignore it. "Second atout. Death. Don't worry, lord prince, all it signifies is change. Which may include change of the mortal kind, but not necessarily at all. But it is a powerful indicator of a life in flux."

"Lastly, the One of Cups. A single-mindedness, good or bad, its crown-like look signifies power over oneself and others." He looks up and smiles. "Much luck in matters of love. All you must do is to take a drink from the goblet."

Hm.

 

[Rolman]

Książę Stanisław Radziwiłł herbu Trąby na Birżach i Dubinkach
Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł of Dubinki and Birże, of the arms of the Trąby.​

It is early February, 1573. You are at the Sapieha family seat at Kodeń, Podlaskie Voivodeship, on the very border of the Polish Crownlands; Lithuania is quite literally a stone's throw away.

You are twenty-one years old; you were born under the sign of Cancer on June 27, 1551, in Dubinki Castle, Grand Duchy of Lithuania.

You are a nobleman of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and therefore call yourself Lithuanian, but modern observers would describe you as culturally Polish. You are of primarily Polish descent; the eponymous Radziwiłł (Lith: Radvila), your paternal great-great grandfather, was probably a full-blooded Lithuanian bearing ultimate descent from the pagan aristocracy.

You are a relapsed Roman Catholic, having rejected your father's Calvinism while in Paris. Observant and sufficiently God-fearing but liberal when compared with Spaniards or Frenchmen, in line with the Commonwealth's relaxed culture toward religion. You are one of the few Catholic Radziwiłłowie – indeed, one of the few major Catholic Lithuanian nobles. Most are Calvinists or Socinians tied to the Polish Brethren.

Normally quite hardy, you are in recovery from what a modern physician would diagnose as pneumococcal pneumonia -- you seemingly survived by divine intercession; both you and others believe you witnessed the Angel of Death passing you over. You have lost about two-fifths of a Galician stone in weight -- about 12 kilos or 26 pounds -- and struggle to gain it back. Your lungs are weak and a cough follows you around.

You have seen men kill and die, but have yet to be exposed to any serious peril. Moncontour and the Massacre weigh on you. You have been drinking more and experience recurring nightmares and moments of panic in waking life.

Physical Appearance​

You are a well-proportioned, normally burly young man standing about 170 centimeters or 67 inches in height – just a bit above average for the period. You don't look sickly pale anymore but your cheeks are somewhat hollow. You have inherited some of your father's namesake ruddiness: your pale complexion is rosy and freckle-dusted, though your short hair is darker and more wavy like your mother's. Thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a pointy, convex nose come together to set your blue eyes handsomely in your face. Your chin and jaw are dusted with stubble, and you're nursing a young man's mustache. You have traded in your Western garb of ruff, doublet, and trunk hose in exchange for your native costume: a fur cap with shining brooch, a fine fur-and-velvet cloak to match over a dyed long tunic, and high leather boots. You wear a rapier and dagger on your belt like a Frenchman.

Education

Received a full Renaissance nobleman's education – in your case in the humanist tradition – at the Collège Royal in Paris. You have good knowledge of the Bible, Greek Classics, and the works of the latest humanists and natural philosophers. You have criticized Dark Age philosophers and theologians, and are familiar with their work in an oppositional lens. You can read the stars and know some practical astronomy; you learnt much theoretical mathematics, but it's fading fast.

Solid student with good work ethic. Particular aptitude in military studies and history.

Hands-on experience as a military aide to Lord Filippo di Piero Strozzi, approx. Two years experience.

Language and Literacy

Polish: Mother tongue, literate. Aristocratic accent.

Chancery Ruthenian: Denoting the Church Slavonic and Latin-infused register of the aristocracy. Second language, full fluency. Subtle Polish accent.

Common Ruthenian: As learned from Tatjana the maid. Northern dialect, what we would perhaps call Proto-Belarussian. Near-fluent. Subtle Polish accent.

Latin: Full fluency, literate. Polish accent.

French: functional fluency, literate, though you lean on Latin vocabulary when discussing high-concept matters. Aristocratic Parisian dialect, Polish accent.

Ancient Greek and Hebrew: You can translate the Classics or Bible but would be hard-pressed to form meaningful sentences of your own.

German: Just barely conversational. High German/Austro-Bavarian dialect.

Italian and Lithuanian: A few key words and phrases.

Practical Skills

General Athleticism: fit, rather strong and fast.

Archery: no formal training. Has used a bow before.

Blades – Longsword: Professionally trained. Some talent.
Blades – Rapier & Dagger: Ditto.
Blades – Sabers: Less training, similar talent.
Blades – Daggers & Knives: Professionally trained.

Pugilism & Grappling: Ditto.

Firearms – Pistols: basic training, can reload and fire matchlock, wheellock.
Firearms – Carbines & Long guns: ditto.

Hunting & Falconry: some experience. Trained.
Tracking: Some experience. Average perception.
Riding: very skilled.

Rhetoric & Persuasive Writing: Formal training. Average aptitude.
Music: A bit of theory, a bit of instrumental training on lute and recorder.

Personality and Other Traits

Consult "What the Italian Said" for a divination of your future.

The astrologers would say that you are dominated by your Mars in Leo – you are a highly choleric young man. Brimming with energy, you are diligent, fearless, extroverted, and ambitious, though you sometimes find yourself disorganized or overburdened. On the flipside, you find yourself dealing with bouts of perfectionism, irritability, egotism, and impulsivity. Sir Marszowski did much to foster this within you.

Ruled by the Moon – and therefore Diana – you enjoy the outdoors, the hunt, and most forms of sport.

Several planets existing under the stars of the Sanguine humor alongside Neptune in Taurus give you a decidedly poetic, romantic, and laid-back demeanor in daily life. It cuts your restlessness, but imbues a sense of anti-authoritarianism and idealism. Your father and eventually your brothers weren't around, your mother died soon after you were born; left alone in Dubinki, you became a bit of a day-dreamer.

You are additionally cooled, however, by the Crab under which you were born, and its extended estates of Jupiter and Mercury. Combined with a ruling Moon in Capricorn, they leave you firmly loyal to family, along with a sense of how best to serve it. You can calm yourself down under pressure and calm down others, too. However, your sensitivity may curdle into touchiness, and your loyalty into naivete and impressionability. Tatjana lives here.

Your time in wartorn France has only redoubled your cultural predisposition to religious tolerance and coexistence.

You are a fish out of water back home, learning how to stand up for yourself and play the game even as others continue to take advantage of you. Not for long, God willing.

Radziwiłł Family Tree​

Distant relationship with father and elder brothers. Inheritance will likely be split three ways. At least your father is willing to vest some trust in you, putting you to work for the good of the family. Your brothers seemed impressive; you haven't seen them since you were around ten or so.

Other Relationships​

Sir Andrzej Marszowski, 43 (b. 1529) – Your father-figure, trainer in personal defense, dance, riding, and the physical arts. Flamboyant and energetic publicly but much more brooding in private. Back by your side where he belongs.

Tatjana the Maid, 54 (b. 1518 d. sometime 1572) – Your mother-figure: a humble, considerate, caring, and highly religious Ruthenian nanny. Extremely intelligent and insightful despite a lack of education.

Prince Alexandre/Henri, Duke of Anjou, 20 (b. 1551) – Something of a friend. During your French education it was hard to maintain a steady circle between courtly duties, helping Lord Strozzi, and attending university classes, so it was hard to get particularly close. Relationship greatly damaged by St. Bartholomew's Day and an angry outburst by yourself. May just be your next King.

Lord Filippo di Piero Strozzi, 31 (b. 1541) – One of the Queen Mother's Florentine advisors, who took you under his wing after you spoke up during the Surprise at Meaux. You learned a bit of the nitty-gritty of generalship from him. You probably won't ever see him again.

Lord Jan Firlej, 51 (b. 1521) -- Firebrand leader of the Protestants and a political and moral ally. Worked with him closely to guarantee the Warsaw Confederation; he is interested in wedding you to his daughter, Jadwiga.

Lord Jan Zamoyski, 30 (b. 1542) -- A fox-like man of unknown intentions. Sharp-tongued and persuasive, he extracted an informal approval of majority rule under viritim from you and spread the rumor far and wide -- changing the tides of support for the policy.

Lady Mariana Sapieha, 18 (b. 1554) -- The young lady with whom you find yourself enamored. Witty, witful, and willful. Enjoys traditionally male pursuits yet remains very ladylike, moments of mischief notiwithstanding.

Lord Paweł Sapieha, 82 (b. 1490) -- The kindly, ancient father of Mariana. Can change his tone on a dime; he is interested in social climbing and securing a good match for Mariana, whom he considers the last human asset of his long life.

 

[Rolman]

I think I failed to emphasize that the Ostrogskis are, like, the Ruthenian Radziwiłłs. Technically the Ruthenian Radziwiłłs are, well, the Radziwiłłs, but you read my meaning. Not small-ish fry like the Sapiehas or powerful within a certain demo like the Firlejs. I mean, they basically own Kyiv. Should've said more on this. Also, poor Halszka Ostrogska. She got shat on and used as a pawn so much there's sad folktales about her and everything.

This is not meant to influence opinion in the slightest, I just realized I think I never said anything about their position besides their seat being Kyiv.

Is this fair to say, Ser n Kir?

 

[Rolman]

Been meaning to ramble for a bit.

With everything said and done, more or less, here's my nerd-vision. Besides, it's not like the people at the time wouldn't be thinking this, too, they were smart.

Majority rule would be a major point of legal divergence for the young Commonwealth. Here's my hypothesis on its effects:

The good thing is that this makes Liberum Veto obsolete -- may "Polish parliament" never mean what it ends up meaning -- and greatly increases the pace at which a Sejm can work to legislate. Politicking would look a bit more "traditional."

Potentially.

The principle of viritim more or less means that any landowning man with an herb to his name and the time and resources to make it to the Sejm has a vote. This could mean the presence of literally thousands of legislators. It is also a blow to the Lithuanian-Ruthenian cause due to obvious logistical concerns. So, imagine trying to get a simple majority out of that.

In the absence of unaniminity may also come a sense of the absence of legitimacy. It may become easier to level accusations of fraud, bribery, etc., and I could well imagine a world with more rokosze, illegal uprisings, and intra-aristocratic disputes.

All in all, I think it could be replacing one dangerous legal mechanism with another. Seems high risk-high reward to me, basically.

What do you all think? Sounds about right or off the money?

 

[Sertorius]

Is this fair to say, Ser n Kir?

Click to shrink...

Aye, the Ostrogskis were a powerful family in Ukraine, as well as the main protectors of the Orthodox faith.

What do you all think? Sounds about right or off the money?

Click to shrink...

That's why Sejms were organized through delegates, much like today. Local Sejmiks (provincial parliaments) elected their representatives, gave them legally-binding instructions about how to vote about what and sent them for the main Sejm. To make the parliament viritim, much like the free elections, would have been a logistical nightmare for the reasons you yourself mentioned. By the way, viritim means that all nobles would have been legally available to participate in the Sejm, not just the landowners. The poor and destitute noblemen would have had the right to be there as well, and since they were always plentiful and the main group to bribe, so yeah...

I cannot see the nobility to agree to make Sejms viritim, just like the free elections, since they had a nice and long tradition of voting via representatives and well, being elected one was a prestigious thing. If not for anything else, then simply for the fact, that regular traveling to and from the Sejm would have been a nightmare for the vast majority of the nobles. Most never leave their place of birth, except for important business.

As to voting by majority and annulling the Liberum Veto. The nobles thought a unanimous decision was an important thing when it comes to their political power. Both the rich and the poor had the same political rights and everybody had to agree on something, nobody could force the rest to make a decision they didn't like. True, it was mostly a facade, but technically it was to protect from abuses of power by the rich minority. Plus, the nobility noticed the Liberum Veto problem in later centuries and thought of a solution: a Confederated Sejm. A Sejm, that was organized via confederation, one for the Crown and one for Lithuania, voted via majority by default, therefore there was no unanimity and no Liberum Veto.

 

[Kir the Wizard]

[X] Write to Lord Ostrogski expressing interest in meeting his daughter, Elżbieta.
[X] "Now I'd love to see a lady hunt."

I think I failed to emphasize that the Ostrogskis are, like, the Ruthenian Radziwiłłs. Technically the Ruthenian Radziwiłłs are, well, the Radziwiłłs, but you read my meaning. Not small-ish fry like the Sapiehas or powerful within a certain demo like the Firlejs. I mean, they basically own Kyiv. Should've said more on this. Also, poor Halszka Ostrogska. She got shat on and used as a pawn so much there's sad folktales about her and everything.

This is not meant to influence opinion in the slightest, I just realized I think I never said anything about their position besides their seat being Kyiv.

Is this fair to say, Ser n Kir?

Click to shrink...

Yep, although by 1573 their cadet branches like Zasławski and Wiśniowiecki (confound the Polish version of their surname, how do I even pronounce that) are on the rise, the Ostrogski are THE big house amongst the magnates.

Certainly, the Radziwiłłs are strong because of their vast lands politics and connections to both Old Lithuania (I mentioned a mythological Baltic heritage of theirs before) and the "New", but their position has always been that of "top administrators, military leaders, and advisors, but not-quite-dukes of Lithuania".

The Ostrogski are "literally the rightful kings of Ruthenia, who pretend to be just some simple princes because they are fine with their massive collections anyway, and thank God for that".

Let's look at this map (not at the red circles):


Most of the first column (sans Zamojscy) alone are Ostrogski and their cadets, agnates, or vassals. Look at their colors on the map. Now, consider that these are just their PRIVATE LANDS that they keep at all times. Aside from that, so that these feudal lords would even agree to the Union of 1569, Kostiantyn-Vasyl Ostrogski was allowed to keep the assigned title of the Voivode (as they translated themselves back in those days to the foreigners, Palatine) of Kyiv. Palatinatus Kioviensis included these lands:

Now, this title would be temporary (the next voivode was assigned from a different dynasty), and the southern part of this was dealing with the quasi-vassals, quasi-madmen the Cossacks, but Ostrogskis, being instrumental to the rise of Cossackdom as a way of life, didn't mind. To sweeten the deal further, the main family and branch families also got the various Starostwos. Another form of a smaller temporary title for the king to give out, however the kings would assign those for indefinite use and even succession in case of a deal with particularly powerful nobles/cossacks.

Even after the main Ostrogski line has died out, their cadet branches picked up the torch, with the strongest one, Wiśniowiecki, ironically, in a way birthing both the cossack revolution and the defense against it, eventually fully Polonizing, and even being elected as the Kings of Poland. He was a lousy king, or at least regarded as such by his contemporaries (homophobia possibly involved), but what's interesting is this tree of ancestors he has ordered, which did not shy away from claiming descent from King Daniel of Ruthenia (something that certain current and past researchers of the Ostrogski dynasty sometimes like to deny, claiming petty princedoms or Lithuanian origins instead, despite no contemporary source proposing the idea)


In short, yes, they are quite strong, old, and are even only called "of Ostrog" to hide the lost cause of the Galician Inheritance crisis and let bygones be bygones. I could imagine writing them as magnanimous and content, but somewhat bitter and reminiscing of the crown the claims to which they have to give up for the sake of peace and unity against the southern/eastern threats (because the -physical- crown itself disappeared somewhere during the succession crisis).

Some sources of the period to get more inspiration on the Ostrogskis (Google Translate should work... I hope):
Letter asking mercy of the Ostrogskis, written by a defeated rebellious Cossack Hetman of Polish (!) origins
Latin four-book poem on the history of the town of Ostrog and the Ostrogski family
More celebratory poems

I actually decided to translate the short Lament poem on the death of an Ostrogski princeling, the Voivode of Volhynia myself to make it rhyme.

FROM THE BOOK "THE LAMENT OF THE HOUSE OF PRINCELINGS OF OSTROG OVER THE MOST SERENE PRINCE OLEKSANDR KOSTYANTYNOVYCH, PRINCELING IN OSTROG, VOIVODE OF VOLYN, WHO HAS DEPARTED THIS WORLD"

FROM FATHER TO SONS

Remember your roots from the princely Ostrogskis of Ruthenian kind,
Whose faith, diligence, and piety you shall keep in mind.
I want to brag about you in front of the great state
By God, let none of you become an apostate
To the faith of the Greek Apostolic Church of the East,
To the good of our house, and our glorious ancestors' feast.
I know of times when your ancestors held their faith like a shield,
Then the enemies of our house always scattered trembling in a field.
That's how they were famous, that's the greatness they acquired,
That which, God willing, shall never be bemired,
For remember my word, if you abandon your faith
Your honor, property and health will fade like a wraith,
But let it be through the vigilant faith in your princely estates
That our house and I will rise in good fame from deathly embrace.

TO ALL THE PEOPLE OF THE COMMONWEALTH
I ask all you fellow Christians to remember me,
My name is Oleksandr, that's for all to see.
As long as the world stands and us Ruthenians thrive,
Please, be you man of either estate, let my memory survive.