Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

"I tell the truth," you clear your throat. "I tell the truth, my lord, that a Habsburg on the throne would bring near-perpetual peace, or at least victory in any war."

"Hmph, until he brings his Jesuits in and–"

"Forgive me, my lord, but – another truth: I would be the first to form a rokosz were he ever to violate the Confederacy," you say, trying to settle into your rhetorician role.

"And surely we would then stand together; in my mind, though, I see nothing good in nominating a man with even a whiff of true Popery about him." Firlej scowls through his great gray beard. "The Frenchman's a bastard, to be sure, but he has next to no power here. No armies on the border, Your Serene Highness."

"A confessional issue would surely not draw the Empire into war against us, my lord, for by our own law would we have our King sign, and by law his efforts may be stopped. And by us."

"Law has not stopped them before, lord prince," rumbles Lord Firlej. "Your Serene Highness most certainly knows that."

"The Emperor and his kind are different, my lord." Says who?

"Says who, Your Serene Highness?"

"Says the Emperor's clause of cuius regio. The similarities are striking."

That second part is exaggeration, but you've made the old bear stumble! He stands, stony-faced, with his hands on his hips. "What is it you were saying about 'peace,' Your Serene Highness?"

Victory! A small one. "The Swede cannot face the Empire, the Tatar and Turk cannot face us were we combined – the men we'd save for Livonia, where many a good Protestant found himself massacred by Muscovites."

He frowned at 'Protestant;' it was subtle but you caught it, and can't divine its source. "That sounds very good. And I'm being sincere, Your Serene Highness. But I am much more concerned for us," he says, gesturing in a sweeping motion at the whole Sejm camp. "We import a man raised without the Liberty, with armies that could quick-march to Kraków in a week? And then onwards into my estates, full of the Christians they so despise? What worse invaders could we face?"

"I simply do not see the risk in that, my lord." You try for a counter. "All the realm would be united in rebellion if it came to it, and the Emperor alone cannot stand against us all."

"So much for your humanism, then, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "The threat of invasion or of civil war for the sake of a meager land grab." Some disrespect! "You know I find you to be a man of good and pious character – and should you not feel dishonored, let us remain friends – but I shall never agree to a Habsburg on the throne. Tell that to your father, Your Serene Highness."

Lord Firlej does, however, raise a finger: "but I will back keeping the Frenchman on a very short leash, Your Serene Highness. That is for certain; I will stand with your people always."

Rebuked and rebuffed yet perhaps reassured, the conversation is over.

You're not sure whether or not to take it personally, but you know that it's a certainty that the news of the meeting spread fast. Curses.

And now, what to do? The situation is only worsening: the French envoy Montluc delivered a smashing speech full of concessions, reassurances, and high-powered rhetoric, delivered in Latin and impressive Polish. Despite the heckling of your supporters and the Protestants, the speech was cheered through all the way. Your minority party seems to shrink further still by the day.

On the other hand, a flamboyant prank involving the nomination of a local lord, layabout, and dirt farmer deals a deathblow to the Piast camp – many of the lordlings move toward various pro-French subfactions, but a decent few remain undecided.

Conferring with your father, brother, and cousin – Krzysztof now only a few days away – a decision is made to…

Note that these are still orders from your Father.​

[] Go to the lordlings.

Try to persuade anybody left among the lesser nobility with promises of the Imperial splendor to be gained. It's a crude argument for crude men, you figure, but one that will certainly perk up more than a few of their ears. And they tend to move as a swarm of sparrows, or flock of geese. There could be a chance, though the legalistically-minded among them will probably balk, as could their irreligious, pragmatic Protestant section.

[] Concede.

The Imperial faction is now limited to your family and their loyalists and a majority of the Catholic clergy. The nobility is rapidly rallying around the versatile Aleksandar as Protestant morale fades. It is better to cut our losses and work within the system than engender political hatred or even physical danger for our being holdouts. There is always next election, and the chance of the Frenchman having to abdicate due to struggles in his homeland is non-zero.

[] Confer with the Catholic clergy.

Meet with the Primate-Archbishop to discuss next moves and the consideration of an appeal to the small – but noticeable – amount of hardline Catholic nobles. The more voices on the floor the better. Will particularly anger Firlej and the Protestants.

[] Send for (more) Imperial diplomats – force a delaying action.

Montluc must be countered with Imperial Montlucs, beyond the little cadre currently at court. Convincing the Emperor should be relatively easy but, in order for them to get here in time, the Sejm's pace must be slowed. This will gain us absolutely no friends – and that's an understatement. However, the arrival of a sizable, official Imperial delegation is a strong and influencing message, a gamble that could just bring back some wind into our sails. The situation may escalate, though.

 

[Rolman]

Tall and strong, he jumps boyishly in consternation, smiling broadly. "Hellfire! I missed out on the fun?"

You draw Krzysztof into a hug. "By God, you're a giant, Brother," you say, looking up at him; he easily exceeds six stopy in height. "And don't worry – it was a lost cause from the start; all we could do was say our piece."

"It involves a lot of ducking, you know," he jokes, breaking the hug and leaning back to take a look at you. "And damn this swamp-Sejm. Huh. You look so much like Mother," he says, a little awestruck. He hardens up again: "heard you haven't been in a real scrape yet, Brother Prince!"

"I was always watching from the camps, sadly." You perk up a little, though. "But I'm looking forward to it! Been reading every book of war I can get my hands on."

He smiles and chuckles. "Well, we'll see if those books can fit in between your plates. I was like you once, though!" he says, beaming at your enthusiasm. "You've got to live it to understand it!"

Septimus sits with his legs crossed. "And may our dear Brother live it soon! Good to see you again, Brother Hetman." His hands are folded but his scarred face is folded up with glee.

"Isn't he stiff? He's like Father," says Krzysztof, mockingly standing stock-straight. "But I'm the better soldier," he teases Septimus.

Your poised eldest brother taps his bardiche mark. "Tell me again some other time, hussar Prince!"

"Ahhhh, we ran down some Muscovite raiders a few weeks back, now that was something! Horse-to-horse."

"And you won, of course?" asks Septimus, leaning forward in his seat.

"We cut a good few of them down and the rest rode off or surrendered. Nobody worth a ransom so we found a nice oak tree and strung the scum up for banditry," he smacks his chest and snorts. "Didn't bury a single one – that's for all the Livonian peasants!"

Everybody laughs – you last. "How about some heated wine, sirs?"

They exclaim in the affirmative.

Indeed, there was not much left to do beside swap stories, trudge through the mud, and drink. The avalanche of support for the Frenchman was unbeatable, and through near-grit teeth you publicly endorsed him as the Sejm took on its tone of ritual unanimity.

Krzysztof was horrified at your recounting of Saint Bartholomew's Day, stammering about the difference between killing and murder, speaking of the equality of souls under God. He implores you, as many others have, to get in the saddle as soon as possible. To, in his words, "wash that harsh taste out of your mouth." He vows that, when war comes again, he'll be the one to show you the ropes.

The assembly meets, day by day, arguments are heard even as all know what's coming. The atmosphere moves from charged to bored; hands rest on chins rather than hilts and pommels.

It is interesting to watch how men make little adjustments to change the world around them. Not in a tangible way, but in their own minds. Your speech was so quickly forgotten by the virtue of a clamor for security, for prestige, on account of rhetoric and by the same way in which fever descends upon men surrounded by the sick.

To fanfare and tossed caps is the Frenchman elected. A furious Lord Firlej threatens to draw out the cannons, but is shouted down and escorted out of the camp nearly at sword-tip. You watched in silence, remaining mindful to hold a neutral expression, yet sent a runner with your regards later that night.

By the start of May, the camp was breaking down, with the duel casualties buried or shipped home as the bishops and senators leave caravan-style through the city gates. It is in this lofty baggage train that you obviously find yourself, quitting your fine accommodations to behold the finely-dyed quilt of tent tops removed to reveal the massive bruise across the field left in its wake.

Spring and Summer were setting in quicker this year, praise God, and the trees and orchards began to bud and blossom as your convoy diverged from your father and brothers'. You were bound for Kodeń with a weighty announcement to make – then onwards to Prince Ostrogski to break the news, too. The lump in your stomach persisted for days as you proceeded down the familiar route from Warszawa to Dubinki via Kodeń.

Downed trees and a bridge collapse led to a detour and nearly a week of lost time. The path grew a bit more remote and, a few days' quick ride from the Sapieha seat, a most interesting thing occurred by the roadside on the southern edges of the great Białowieża wood: with vultures circling above, a lone bison stood obstinate on the drying dirt track, snorting and stomping, only fleeing when pelted with stones. The men joke about stoning royal property being legal without a king. They hide their questions regarding such an omen.

The leaves were beginning to dance, and then came a village.

 

[Rolman]

The peasant approaches you on his knees, cap in hand, his balding head poking out of the growing barley as he emerges with a downcast face. It's an odd thing to see, and you wonder why he didn't proceed up the little trail leading to his village; it bludgeons to death the tranquility of the great forest, green and grass-scented on the cusp of summer. His knees kick up gravel and a little cloud of dirt as he reaches the road.

Your mind is removed from the decision you must make at Kodeń.

He speaks Polish through a thick accent, drowning out the birds and insects. "My lord, ah, Your Highness, my lord, I come on bended knee to, ah–"

You look down from your horse. "Speak, man."

"Piotr Borkowicz! The Outlaw Pan! He's alive! And if we don't give him all our head of cattle and-and-and–" his voice cracks, "three maidens, God help us, three of our girls, to do, to do–"

"Slow down. Slow down. Who is this 'Sir' Borkowicz?"

"A devil! A bastard! Ain't a soul in his fat body, I'd kill him if I–!"

"Relax!" You can practice raising your voice at peasants, you dimly suppose. "I'm sure all of this is true but who is he? And where?"

"Piotr Borkowicz! He betrayed Master Paweł five years ago and hid out in the woods! Used the strongboxes of gold he stole from Master to raise himself up a little army!" He cannot lower his voice, which cracks on occasion through his panicked stammer. "And–and the Sapieha men came when it happened, God bless those brave men, they killed his men but not the bastard but now he's back! He's back! We thought he ran away. We don't know what to–"

"Easy now, man. Easy," you say, putting out a palm. "We're friends of the Sapiehowie; we can help. Now when's that, uh," you assume he probably doesn't know 'ultimatum'. "Tax of his due?"

"Tonight! We sent Kostya and little Vanya four days ago to Kodeń on the donkeys and God protect them but they're not back yet. What happened to him, o God, they volunteered, we were too… We have… We need the starost's men, but– We have pitchforks, our billhooks, ah, our grainflails, a matchlock and some bows and, but… By God, God help us, they have pistols and swords and horses and…"

You try to speak like old Tatjana, switching to his language, his peasant register. You want to soothe him, and almost try to address him as a child. "Thou wilt be protected, God as my witness," you raise an oath-taking hand. "We know thy Lord, he's a good man, but there be no time to waste; we'll put these brigands in the ground or on the gallows."

"God bless you! God bless you! Glory to God!" The poor man is finally crying.

"We'll take care of this rabble," you tell him. You turn to Marszowski, switching back to Polish. "I said we'll–" a shock runs through you, but you say it: "I said we'll kill the bastards."

"Capture the rest for the executioners," he says, displaying that rarely-seen savagery. "They need the water-cure or the wheel, strappado, I don't know, there's nothing I hate more than bastard traitors who abuse the little people."

"He's a shame to his herb. We'd do his clansmen a favor," you say. You're burning up. "We don't need to deliver him to court, you know, only if we want." You think that may be correct – you're not sure, probably condemned in absentia anyways – but realize that you're a Radziwiłł and this bastard is… Whoever he is. It'll be fine in these lawless times. You've been waiting for something like this. You think. "What do you know about setting ambushes?"

"Not much." Sir Marszowski smirks, looking almost wistful. "I'm a cavalry charge man, lord prince." But he looks over his shoulder. "Have you met van Gistel yet?"

"Van Gistel?"

"Aye, Karol van Gistel, ah, so, you haven't..? Well, he just arrived yesterday at nightfall," he says. "Since you told your father you wanted a captain; I let him rest before an introduction, rode here so fast he needed relief horses." He looks back to your assorted attendants and bodyguards. "Hey, Sir van Gistel, get up here, please!" He turns back to you, quieter. "Netherlandish rebel who wasn't getting paid enough."

Marszowski continues. "He's only been with our infantry since about '71 or so, but all my little birds say he's rock-solid. Led a pike square but we haven't tried him out yet, also with the castle guard; he knows his stuff." Your lieutenant smiles and gives an exaggerated finger-wag. "You don't know your own bodyguards, lord prince?"

The youngish, tall blonde man riding up must have heard that; he dismounts and takes a knee. "Karol van Gistel, Your Serene Highness. For the Family I'll give my life." And speaks perfect Polish!

"Rise, van Gistel," you say, trying to act princely. He obeys. "I'm told you've led men?" you notice he's missing his left ear and a piece of corresponding cheek, and wears a crescent-shaped pin in his Polish-style cap.

"Yes, Your Serene Highness. In the Low Countries and in the Grand Duchy, may the Lord preserve both." Yet the soldier looks bashful. "Well, I haven't had the chance quite yet to have a real formation here, actually, Your Serene Highness."

"Please, sir, tell me why did you come here?"

"I did three years with the geuzen, Your Serene Highness – ah, 'beggars,' is what we called ourselves–"

"Yes, I was in France for years, you know, so I'm quite aware of the Netherlandish war." You scratch your chin, worried about being lied to yet again. "And I know of its barbarism, the tyranny of the Duke. So… Why leave such a noble cause, sir?"

"Well, I didn't want to, Your Serene Highness." He taps the crescent pin. "This is for merit. It says…" he seems tentative for a moment. "There's a motto on it. It says, ah, 'Rather Turkish than Popish, in spite of mass.'"

"You know I'm thick-skinned on such things, sir, worry not. But my question."

"My apologies, Your Serene Highness. I'm of Brabant, you see, and a nobleman. My family had a little estate and between the Pa– Catholic mobs, and, well, what I did – we lost it all." He clears his throat. "Guilt, Your Serene Highness, honest to the Lord. And a man cannot survive comfortably on a rebel Prince's guilder. I fought my way across the Empire in some petty squabbles and now I serve the Family."

He will suffice, perhaps. You point at the serf, still crying, shaking and fidgeting in place. "Did you catch any of what he said?"

"Man's in hysterics, Your Serene Highness."

"Yes. There's a gang of thieves and murderers threatening them," you say, making a sweeping hand at the thatch and wood-shingled roofs a couple hundred łokcie away, across the barley field. Nobody is outside, no smokestacks from their chimneys "They're demanding girls and cattle. They come tonight."

He shakes his head. "The cunts." Hard to read what he really thinks. Mercenaries aren't the most dissimilar, after all.

"Indeed." You sigh. The world is so heavy sometimes. But all this talk of Livonia has brought something out in you, something like the steel of grandfather's jousting plates. You're tired of watching and shaking and crying. "I'm told that you can lead footmen in particular."

"Yes, Your Serene Highness, though it's been a year or so since I've been a genuine colonel." Of course Father would send an untested man. For his untested son.

Hm. But it's all as Marszowski said. "Well, what do you know about setting ambushes?"

Van Gistel cracks a smile. "A good deal, Your Serene Highness. Back during the war, we tended to attack at night. Later on it was open battle, and I could use what I learned fighting the thirds, but, well, in a word – yes, I can set an ambush."

You look at Marszowski; he nods. "Then we need you, sir. And for tonight. The head-count is, what, fifty or so?"

Sir Marszowski squints. "Fifty-three, Your Serene Highness; Sirs Nowicki and Hejnisz are the ones with flux back at Kodeń. Twenty carbines and everybody's got a sword and dagger and near-everyone a horse. Couple of ceremonial halberds we could sharpen up in a pinch." He lowers his voice. "Some of the lads are fifteen, sixteen, though. Assistants. They can fight but aren't tested." Ah, like me.

"Do you reckon we'd be outnumbered?" you ask.

"In my opinion – no," says Sir Marszowski. "But these bands could range from a few dozen to a few hundred."

"Dost thou know?" you turn to the serf. You realize you're speaking to him as God does to man.

"At least thirty, Your Highness, at least thirty but we know not for certain."

"Numbers mean little in things like these, Your Serene Highness," says the Fleming, showing off a missing front tooth with his smile as his blonde hair catches in the sun. He's like a shaggy dog made man. "Not– not to speak out of turn."

"Not at all, sir, if anybody would know…" you point at him and smile.

"Thank you, Your Serene Highness! And the moon's nearly full," he exclaims, giving a bow, "we will have them!" Van Gistel eagerly turns his heel and sets himself to marching up and down the road, arms crossed, glancing over toward the village.

"Very eager," you comment.

"Well, who wouldn't be, Your Serene Highness?" smirks Marszowski. "This is the biggest promotion of his life, and you're letting him run things."

"Do you… Do you think that's bad?" you ask, leaning over your horse into his ear.

"Not necessarily, lord prince, so long as you make the final decision and uphold respect."

After a few minutes, van Gistel asks a man up front, a rich herald with a big Frisian stallion, something you can't hear; he winds up balancing on his tiptoes atop the attendant's horse.

He looks back and shouts: "I'm thinking we could set something in the barley fields, Your Serene Highness, or waylay them on this road, maybe even within the village itself; we could hide in the houses and let them get close. Serfs would pad out our numbers, too." He jumps down from the horse and begins to trot back to you.

The sobbing peasant had been turning his head back and forth all the while, listening in. He switches to his rough Polish: "We can help, we can help, we're not cowards, just scared. The children know good hiding spots."

"Bandits are cowards, Your Serene Highness," says van Gistel, arriving with breath to spare. "They run easily, but they'll be back should we not take their leader somehow."

What do you think? Van Gistel and Marszowski will certainly advise.

The village and its barrier-fields of barley lie to your left-hand side, perhaps a tenth of a mile in all – the road diverges into a curving trail leading to the hamlet a few hundred feet to your front. Shallow, muddy ditches on either side of the main road exist for rudimentary drainage.

[] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."

Hopefully their horses would spook, sending them into the fields or to run the gauntlet of the ambush-trail. Isolated melees likely.

[] "I like the idea of the village. They'd be surrounded and outnumbered."

A superior attack from all sides, with overwhelming numbers but overwhelming chaos. And what if they burn the houses, or sense something's wrong first?

[] "On the road, from the ditches. I'd wager that we could pull them right off their horses."

Any escapees would be fearsome on horseback, with a track to charge down should they not flee. But a short-range rush could prove devastating and decisive, but result in melee.

[] "What about a little cavalry charge, Sir Marszowski? Right through the fields into their flanks on the road."

Surely they won't *all* be mounted? They're brigands. Run them down like the curs they are. A good carbine volley before impact and they're finished on the spot, perhaps after a brief melee.

[] "What if we spread the men and serfs across this whole stretch and attack at the halfway mark?"

Allowing them to reach a midway point up the track to the village, then folding inwards from their front and rear. A combination of the above plans hopefully leading to a thin circle, but an encirclement nonetheless.

[] Write-in.

Like building a wagon-fort or something?

 

[Sertorius]

[X] "I like the idea of the village. They'd be surrounded and outnumbered."

I prefer the overwhelming ambush from all sides in the village. The surest way of annihilating most if not all of the scum.

A few words regarding the cops.

So, law enforcement does exist of course. It's quite ineffective, but it exists. The local Starosta is the man responsible for the execution of law within his Starostwo (administrative unit, something like a County). Since the Starosta is usually some magnate or other rich noble that has better things to do, de facto the work is being carried out by his subordinate, a Podstarości, Wicestarosta, Burgrabia (sometimes called Murgrabia), Starosta Jurydyczny, Podwojewodzi... depends on the region of the Commonwealth. For Lithuania, it would be a Podwojewodzi (Vicepalatinus) or Podstarości (Vicecapitaneus) with the latter being a universal option for nearly the whole country. Think of him as the Sheriff, who has a few pleb Deputies to his name (Pachołkowie Starościńscy, Starosta's Men/Servants), that can count anything from half a dozen to a couple of dozens. They uphold the law, enforce court verdicts, guard the peace on the roads, etc. Before he and his men can do anything to a landed noble, there is a long legal fight (unless he was captured within 72 hours of committing a crime)... not so much with a poor nobleman without any land. Even then, the man usually has to send for help to other local noblemen to assist him with manpower in executing the law, if the perpetrator refuses to adhere to the courts... so yeah, it's a shitshow. Towns and cities keep town guards of course as well, but they cannot touch a nobleman, unless he causes trouble right in front of them.

Now, when it comes to noble brigands, if they have a banishment (exile, they have to leave the country) or worse, an infamy sentence to their name, they are screwed if captured. These verdicts were usually given in absentia, since many noblemen ignored the courts and never went to the hearings (and with the death penalty on the line in the more severe cases, who can blame them?). A banished noble, if captured, lands in prison but still has his privileges intact, therefore he cannot be killed on a whim. Infamy however, means that the noble loses all privileges and any man who kills him can do so without any repercussions and can expect a reward for his troubles from the authorities (and a banished noble who did the deed can have his banishment revoked). Also helping a infamis in any way (even giving him water) condemned the accomplice to the same status. In practice, you have to capture the man to enforce these laws. Some had magnate protectors that defended them from the courts and their verdicts (the infamous troublemaker and murderer Samuel Łaszcz had dozens of banishments and infamies to his name, yet was untouchable because he was protected by Hetman Stanisław Koniecpolski, since he was also an excellent soldier and leader in times of war; Koniecpolski needed such good men to fight the Tatars and any other enemies). Still, the raid itself is crime enough even if nobody had a sentence before and if captured by the law the attacker would have been subject to quick execution without a trial, since he was caught red-handed.

Some places do, however, execute the law with extreme impunity. The Royal court and the vincity of the monarch within the radius of a few miles are sacrosanct and anyone causing trouble or starting a fight there is subject to a very brutal crackdown and summary execution. The same will be with the Tribunals in the future, but they haven't been created yet (Court of Appeals for the Crown and Lithuania).

The interregnum itself is a time, when being a troublemaker is a bad idea. The regular Courts ceased to function (since they passed judgement in the name of the King, who was now dead). Kaptur (Hood) Courts were elected by each local Sejmik and worked in their stead during this time. The name came from the classic black hood used by executioners when perfoming the job. The Starostas and their men were subject to their whims. The Hood was a criminal court only and was surprisingly quick and effective at passing merciless judgements on anyone disturbing the peace during interregnum. There was a path of appeal to the General Confederation (the General Hood) but most brigands were summarily executed if they didn't have a magnate behind their back. The new King had to formally confirm all of the sentences of each Hood after his election.

Phew.

With all this in mind, back to our situation. The dead are dead, therefore no courts for them, no matter what they had done in life. If the village is owned by a private individual that cannot help for whatever reason (and he doesn't live there, since then his manor, servants and family would have been raided too and that implies he owns more than 1 village, making him a fairly rich man and a member of the middle nobility or a magnate), then he will be grateful to whomever saves his property from brigands. Whether it is a Radziwiłł force, a Starosta or whatever. Unless of course he has some beef with his saviour, who might use this opportunity to take over said village and lands by force (which was not so uncommon, especially for the rich and mighty). The local peasants (and administrator if present) of course will ask anyone for immediate help if available, therefore it would not be unreasonable for a passing troop to rescue them for a myriad of reasons, be it compensation, honor or anything else. The leader does accept the risk however for the situation and for his men, since they are in the employ of his master and should he be displeased with their intervention or its consequences, it may cost him his job or worse.

Edit

A few more notes:

Ukraine was by far the most lawless place of all, given its vast space, lack of law enforcement, frontier manners, Cossack and Tatar troubles and powerful magnates rulling the more civilized parts, waging a war with each other. It was the favourite destination of troublemakers, exiles, bandits, as well as men looking to earn their fortune. It's been sometimes called the Polish Wild West (or East in this case).

Each local Hood, as well as the General Hood enforced the peace using their own forces. Should they rely on Starostas alone (since they had no authority during interregnum, being enforcers of a dead King), they would have been as ineffective as them. Hoods raised their own troops using private money (the nobles themselves, their men, hired men, etc.) and used them to keep the peace, then disband them after the election was done. The General Hood had quite the force at its disposal to guard the election Sejm, so that Lord Firlej or anyone else would be disinclined to do something stupid there. Add to the mix the Hood Courts, that executed troublemakers without mercy (and very fast) and you have a country that was much safer during interregnum, than in times when there was a King on the throne!

In general, we can summarize the law and its enforcement in one short quotation.

"Every man in the Commonwealth is his own master, so long as he holds a sabre and can gather some men to his name."

The biggest stick rule mostly applies.

 

[Rolman]

Marszowski and van Gistel nod approvingly at the idea, but have a couple questions. "There is nothing more important in the stratagem of ambush than detail, Your Serene Highness," says the Netherlander.

The men are informed that they will go into battle that night and most are excited; some grumble about the relative lack of honor in killing brigands; none show fear except for the little lads. Their confidence is contagious, and you soon find yourself cracking jokes and sipping spirits amid the lordlings. You feel a brotherhood, already as if these men would die for you -- and they would.

The evening is dedicated to the particulars. The men are armed and the horses fed and watered, mass is performed before a Calvinist service is held. The peasants pray in their Orthodox church and show that they are prepared, too: the men of the village – from little lads just strong enough to make hay to men on the brink of old age, they stand ready with billhooks fastened to poles, grainflails, and woodsmen's axes. A few hold bows and the richest man in the hamlet clutches his matchlock nervously.

Among your sworn men, there are not enough carbines to go around. Who will receive them?

[] The infantry.

To establish a crossfire during the opening volley from the barley fields. Maxing out the carbines' range but should provide relatively accurate fire.

[] The cavalry.

To strengthen the shock of their charge, and allow for the picking off of retreating foes.

Marszowski, who will lead the mounted detachment, wants to know: from where should the cavalry charge?

[] From the rear.

Cut them off and cut them down as they flee or are otherwise engaged with the footmen. Removes or greatly reduces the enemy's chance of escape. However, there is a chance that the horsemen would wind up meeting the bandits on the main road or arriving too late entirely.

[] From the fields.

Hard to conceal, an attack from the fields would be somewhat slow and would slow down the infantry charge, too. However, crashing into the enemy's flanks in two waves from both sides would be devastating, although guaranteeing a bit of a melee on the trail leading into the village.

[] From the village.

The sight of a detachment of noble cavalry suddenly barrelling down the village trail, facing their carbines or otherwise dazed by the infantry's volley, should make even the toughest of bandits turn tail – right into the waiting infantry. However, it will take some time for the horsemen to make contact, and our footmen will be reluctant to advance onto the trail and risk being struck by their own cavalry charge.

And from van Gistel, captain of foot: what to do with the peasant militia?

[] Hold them in reserve in the village.

In a few words: don't use them. Or, at least, only use them as a last resort should things go very wrong. A serf with a weapon may look too much like a bandit in the nighttime, and it's best to keep an untrained, untested, undisciplined force out of any attack.

[] Use them to pad out the numbers of the infantry ambush.

Maximizing the strength and shock of the foot charge is essential to a successful rout – or slaughter. The peasants are motivated and add significant numbers (and numbers that won't be missed should they become casualties) to your infantry; every third man would be a serf, should they be utilized. However, would considerably increase the chaos of the melee.

[] Have them cut off the bandits' retreat in a blocking action.

Using their ultralight nature and knowledge of the land, maneuver the serf militia to cut off the bandits in a massed formation up the trail, blocking the road. The enemy would hopefully break, surrender, or bypass the mass of angry peasants by fleeing into the barley fields, where they'd be isolated and basically defenseless for our horse.

 

[Rolman]

The barley hisses, an eagle-owl chants its call just a bit faster than your racing heart. The sun's been down for an hour or two. You take your hand off your carbine to wipe the sweat on your tunic. You check for your saber. You check for your dagger. You check for the truncheon a peasant handed you. Of course they're still there.

The sheer border between the opposite field and the moonlit sky. Van Gistel stifles a cough. The very Calvinist man on your left continues to whisper martial Psalms to himself.

…touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Cast forth lightning and scatter them, shoot out thine arrows and destroy them…

The Netherlander hisses at him to shut it. Someone is running down the trail chk-chk-chk. You hear a procrastinator crank his gun's wheel, the faint tapping of powder into the pan.

"Sirs!" cries out a voice in his mova. It's a serf boy, about as tall as the scythe he carries. "They're coming, sirs!" Nobody needs a translation.

The men know to wait for the opening shot. Your opening shot, a booming order from their prince.

That familiar underwater-muffled thumping rises in your ears and the next minutes are breathless. You look down the trail, through the waving stalks.

Light. Lanterns, you suppose. Maybe half a dozen, swinging like pendulums. They're smaller than candle-flames at first but as the seconds pass they grow and grow. You begin to be able to hear them, their laughter, the clopping of hooves.

Van Gistel growls something to himself in his language. He leans over to you. "Your Serene Highness – find that Borkowicz cunt. He's probably first in line. They seem nice and arrogant."

"Understood."

"Nervous, Your Serene Highness?" you don't answer; you don't want the men to hear you.

But you do have a question. You asked the hussars as a boy, but this time is different. "What's it like to kill somebody?"

"Like killing anything else, Your Serene Highness. Maybe even easier, on account that they're trying to kill you."

You swallow and wipe your hands again.

The bandits inch closer, moseying leisurely on horse and on foot. They're just silhouettes, a couple mean faces illuminated by their lanterns, some taller than others, and you try to count them out: maybe close to forty? The column stretches back a decent bit. Sabers and hatchets on belts glint orange and silver. You can see the outline of a musket slung over one man's shoulder. These aren't the desperate farmers-turned-robbers of France.

You realize that they're too spread out: the plan to let them advance and then fire from behind at diagonals would only catch the tail. The volley will have to come either from the front or in a true, lateral crossfire – endangering both you and the men opposite.

At least Borkowicz betrays himself with his nasal voice and educated accent. "Now, lads, you know I get the blonde one," he laughs, to the disappointed groans of those behind him. "But the cowhides will go into your pay."

…Whatever you say, sir… …fine, sir… …you're a real bastard, sir…

They all laugh together. "HEY!" yells Borkowicz; he must be cupping his hands around his mouth. The psalm-lover to your left twitches. "What did I tell you yokels?! Stupid bastards, you thought I was joking? Come out NOW!"

These are the men who volunteered to cut throats at Moncontour. These are the men who kicked down doors and went after the women and children on Saint Bartholomew's Day. You know it. You know it. Every nation and people have ones such as these. You're shaking, you're buzzing, you're vibrating, by God.

The fear and rage combine. You find it in you to pick out Borkowicz and raise your carbine. It'll be like taking down a boar or a stag or a bird. Just exhale and squeeze the trigger slowly.

They're quickening their pace and almost dead-on, there's not much time! Squeeze it! Squeeze it! Too hard!

You try to compensate and pull downwards; only as the sparks fly do you realize that you're going to hit his horse instead.

The animal's legs buckle. People are already yelling but your ears ring and then ring some more as the overlapping booms remind you of a pike square's drummer. More men and horses drop.

Your legs carry you forward as you howl with your men, eyes stinging as you run through the gunsmoke left by those in front of you. "Bóg nam radzi!" You cannot focus on what you're about to run into, saber and dagger in hand. Whizzes and cracks as a few bandits manage to return fire. Someone in front of you looks like he tripped.

You head toward the screaming, fallen horse where you know the bastard to be, dimly supposing he must be pinned. You can just barely hear him yowling for help. The cacophony grows as the first swords begin to cross and clang, the first thwacks and grunts of connecting slashes and chops, muffled in your hurting eardrums. You hop over a man choking on blood and prepare to do the same for the dying horse when something slams into you from the side. You hit the ground hard, your saber knocked clean out of your hand.

You can smell his beer-breath. A shock of white in your vision as you're hit in the face. And again. And again. My dagger! My knife!

You've lost it, too! You slap the dirt around you where it should be until you feel the cold flat of the blade. The man sits up and cocks back longer than before. You find the hilt and it feels like you're just punching him. He feels like the straw bags and hog-flanks of the years and years of practice. Working for this. Waiting for this. I'm still alive.

Focus. He starts trying to choke you. It's working. The sounds you're making are inhuman.

Below the ribs, below the ribs. You keep working at him and it starts to squelch: short little savage thrusts just above the belt. He cracks you again on the face and you swallow a tooth and you're hit once more. But this time it's much weaker.

It's like he's falling asleep on top of you. He leans lower and lower, his strikes coming less and less frequently. Bending down from his straddle, he sigh-groans in your ear and falls near-still. He coughs and splutters, breathing with great effort. Your midriff feels warm.

"Protect your Prince, Goddamn you!" It's van Gistel. His cursing drowns out the pitiful cries of the bandit-lord behind him. He grabs your assailant by the back of his shirt and heaves him off of you, then pulls you up with equal haste. It feels like he nearly pulled your arm out of its socket. "Are you hurt?" Your mind is blank.

"No. No."

A few men heed van Gistel's order and form a screen around you, giving you a moment to bend over and recover your saber.

It's hard to figure out who is fighting who. Scenes like yours play out as men grapple on the ground, clubbing and punching and stabbing each other. You remember the burgher lad in France for a split second, beaten to death on the cobbles. He was younger than you.

A staggering man cries out in a hoarse voice: "I can't find the boss! Where's the boss?!"

You can see him whipping his head about. "He's dead, idiot!" shouts one of your bodyguards.

"Indeed!" cries another. "We'll show you his head!" Everybody around you begins to taunt and jeer, drowning out Borkowicz's protests. In France, you could never hear what they were saying once they really got into the mix.

The scared bandit turns and runs. Those around him take note – one man's even struck down watching him go.

van Gistel cackles like a wild-man. "Yes! Scare the stupid bastards!"

Another runs. And another. And another. This is how it starts? You have seen this mindlessness, this all-encompassing, white-hot terror seize men from afar. Friend and foe alike face it; very few men are immune to cowardice as he watches his fellows abandon him.

All attention turns toward the village as a hunter's horn blares.

"Men!" you shriek, pushing your voice to its limit, "off the road! Off the road!"

A fighting retreat of sorts begins as a few bandits, drunk on fear or gorzała and unwilling to run, swing wildly at you and your men as you attempt to reenter the barley field. The screen of protectors leave you as a mere spectator and, for once, you don't feel left out as a fearsome headache sets in.

By the time you can hear them they're already quite close. A tight-packed hulk riding three horses wide, riders low like jockeys. A new chorus shouts the family motto over thundering hooves. Even a charge of some twenty men is enough to make the ground shake.

You hope that most of your men are out of the way as the horsemen roll through the battlefield, hacking at shoulderblades and scalps, knocking over the living and trampling the dead. The brigands who were still standing aren't anymore. The more sanguine of your men run back into the mix quickly to deliver mercy strokes and throat-slashes to the reeling survivors, weaving around the cavalry, who have lost some momentum.

You see the peacock feather in Marszowski's hat silhouetted against the sky. "Pursue! By God, boys, kill!" he shouts.

"Send them to Hell, chevalier!" you answer.

You realize that he can actually hear things. He waves his cap. "With pleasure, lord prince! At them!" He flicks his reins with a "kyah!" as his fellow riders roar in agreement. They weave around the executioners and leave you all choking on dust as they begin the pursuit.

"After them!" you order. You find van Gistel somehow and head toward the downed Borkowicz.

He's dead. After recovering a fallen lantern it's obvious; his unpinned leg is completely bloodsoaked. Your shot passed through him and into his now-heaving horse, which van Gistel quickly finishes off. You feel absolutely nothing but notice that you're not blinking, that you must do so willfully.

Van Gistel holds the lantern up to you and claps you on the shoulder. "Wondrous work on the ground, Your Serene Highness; it's a tough spot." You shake your head. He holds it up to your face and whistles. "And none can deny your valor!" You manage to laugh.

You need to catch up with your men. The first few moments of the run are merely down a dirt track, but then the bodies begin to appear. First loners, then pairs, then clusters. The cavalry are doing good work. You hear the boom of what must be the village's only musket before being able to make out a clamor up ahead in sight and sound, sounding more like cheering than the din of battle.

You and van Gistel drop into guards at the sight of men in commoners' clothing running straight at you. By the Cross!

You shout out in lordly Ruthenian: "I am your Prince!" their prince?

It doesn't matter; they're too happy. The serfs are ecstatic. Many gather around you crying tears of joy. "We will never fear the dark again! Saint Michael watched over us; not a single one of us lost!"

An extremely odd scene ensues. The women and girls immediately begin dancing and chanting stories and songs, starting to cook up the best feast they can muster, their elderly priest emerges to personally bless you and your men, flicking holy water with his aspergil. Yet something has taken over their menfolk – and even some of yours.

A pair of boys pass a severed head back and forth. The older men look like threshers as they head into the battle scene caving in heads with grainflails and quarterstaffs, breaking their walking sticks, pissing and spitting. Borkowicz is beheaded, emasculated, and after his severed hands are nailed to some trees burned in full view of all. Just like Coligny. Yet the atmosphere is downright festive.

It's a testament to their rage – that part is obvious. But you dimly wonder: when are the little people ever given such an outlet? Such a gift to, for once, not be whipped and robbed.

Indeed, not a single serf was killed or suffered worse than a scrape. Of your number, three will need a Christian burial, one man has been given his last rites, and two more are wounded badly. Not terrible, all things considered; just over one in ten.

Forty-seven brigands are counted out. The serfs reckon that's nearly all of them. Two are yours. One by mistake and one because you had to. You can't really think about it yet. They're burned in a heap and the leftovers buried in common. They smell like roast chicken and singed hair. It's the only time your stomach churns. A quick work and sloppy job – but none care.

Dawn rises and the serf's feast is enjoyed. Your muscles ache and you somehow possess an appetite despite the black work: fish soup with millet, black bread with ample butter, barley porridge made luxurious with honey or melted cheese, little mushroom dumplings, roasted game birds and smoked venison. They even slaughtered a pig and gave you and your men the belly cuts; it's charming. Never have you seen lofty Radziwiłł men fraternize with the little folk, yet here you all are. Soldiers all.

"Peasants hardly need training when they're on the defense," shrugs van Gistel. "They did quite well – yours are a martial people, Your Serene Highness."

Between the food and the excitement of last night, the men grow iron-weary and camp is set up quickly.

You're given a mirror and you look like hell. Your nose like a sausage, around your eyes and cheeks yellow and black, cuts and hematomas all around your hairline; his attempt to strangle you burst the blood vessels in your very red eyes.

"Are you ready, Your Serene Highness?" asks your barber-surgeon, having finally obtained some privacy. The men sleep like rocks and you cannot wait to join them. Marszowski and van Gistel stand behind him, somehow smiling and grimacing at the same time.

"Mhm."

"One, two, three–"

Pop! You hiss as he fixes your nose. None of the men wince. "And if I may see your mouth, Your Serene Highness." You show him. "That's good. Nice and clean. There are surgeons in Kraków and Wilno that can replace it with anything you'd like. Dead men's teeth, silver, gold, ivory. I'm told they lance the gums very little, Your Serene Highness." Ouch.

"That sounds rather good," you chuckle.

"I should get on that my own self!" says van Gistel, showing off his own missing tooth.

"And I'll get started right away on some compresses and poultices for the cuts and bruises, Your Serene Highness." He excuses himself.

With only van Gistel and Marszowski now, you drop the princeliness somewhat. Van Gistel may have just saved your life by drawing attention to you, and you find yourself feeling warmer and warmer towards him. "So, sirs – how'd I do?"

Van Gistel looks to Marszowski, who says: "quite well, lord prince, quite well indeed."

"Absolutely, Your Serene Highness," agrees van Gistel.

"Don't feed me a line," you point at them.

"No, truly," says Marszowski. "A very good stratagem."

"Killed two men, Your Serene Highness" smiles van Gistel, "and were loud enough that the half-deaf fellows could hear you and obey. That's a marvelous debut."

Your smile is partly forced. You feel proud yet you still can't understand how people can be so glib about this business. It was even worse in France. "I'm glad, but – I feel like I got punched in the face nine times," you laugh. So do they.

"I think it wound up being a truncheon or something," says Sir Marszowski with a smile. "I hope that Lady Sapieha likes you for more than just your looks, Your Serene Highness!"

You blow a raspberry. "In France, there was one of those wolf-men, you know what I'm talking about? He married one of the prettiest ladies-in-waiting, so I reckon I'll be alright!"

As usual, wine is delivered and conversation about old battles comes up. Marszowski reminiscing about fighting the Muscovites with their odd little wheeled fortifications, meeting cavalry with cavalry and the hussars naturally coming out on top. Van Gistel speaks with pride about the day he broke a Spanish Third with marksmen's fire and nimble sword-and-buckler men, darting under their pikes. Guts everywhere, he says. They tell you that you haven't seen anything yet.

"Five thousand, six thousand men," says Marszowski, looking up at the ceiling near-wistful. "Your mind can hardly wrap around it when you see it."

All a little drunk, they respectfully retire and you jokingly cross yourself at that.

All you want to do is sleep, after all. Your headache, by God. What a terrible headache. With your eyelids heavy and your tent at last vacated, you fall into deep and dreamless sleep. You will think about your choice at Kodeń tomorrow.

 

[Rolman]

You have arrived at Kodeń and the time has come. Joining Lord Sapieha for a dinner and catching concerned looks from Mariana at your smashed face, everybody dances around the important matter. Though you are heartily thanked for your purging of some scum from Sapieha lands.

Privately, you must tell Lord Paweł to his face. With a great inhale, you tell him that you will be contracting a marriage with…

[] His daughter, Lady Mariana Sapieha.

Your favorite, the precocious youngest daughter of old Paweł. A peculiar mix of mischief and ladylikeness, she saved you from an angry stag over the winter yet can easily speak of Petrarch and her favorite Northern painters alike. In terms of political, social, and economic gain, though: not much, though the Sapiehowie are no slouches.

[] Princess Elżbieta Ostrogska.

The once-fearsome daughter of Ruthenia's greatest magnate, a marriage to Princess Ostrogska is a marriage to a Princess indeed. She seems to be deep in melancholia, or at least unwilling to speak properly about herself until raised out of her suffocating situation. Pretty and not unlikable, though. The political and economic gain cannot be emphasized enough.

[] Lady Jadwiga Firlej.

You haven't met her but are told she's a spitting image of her jovial-yet-fierce father. A powerful interfaith marriage such as this would surely bring long-term Protestant support to your family – though it will always have its limits. Also of middling financial gain; a gamble, a shot in the dark, but perhaps a good one.

The wedding feast was marvelous; the realm awaits the arrival of the Frenchman, his representatives swearing to the Confederation and the drawn-up, Liberty-defending Pacta Conventa shortly after your departure from Warszawa. His marriage to old Princess Anna is guaranteed, and he should be due to arrive by New Year's. The months roll on as you settle into married life.

Yet something is a little wrong. Maybe more than a little. You sleep less and less, the nightmares come more and more frequently, you need wine at breakfast to settle the tightness in your chest and you cannot stand the smell or taste of chicken anymore. Summer thunderclaps make you jump. You develop frequent headaches.

You think of the men who were lost and feel like Daniel in the lion's den. You knew at least all of their clan names, and one older man – the one who lingered, you visited his deathbed – he was one of the kindest of your father's men in your childhood. The musket balls whizzed right past you; your assailant died on top of you before he could knock you unconscious or break the bone in your throat. Why me?

You soldier on, doing your duty and telling yourself that you must live, that God is testing you and cleansing you with affliction of the mind and body. He is keeping you for something, and you're not quite sure what. It keeps you pensive, fearful, and you try to devote yourself to good works when politics don't call.

You end up spending most of your time with your wife and entourage at…

[] Dubinki and Wilno.

Reacquaint yourself with the familial estates and with Lithuania at large. Probe into Livonia.

[] Kraków.

Keep your finger on the pulse of the court, Senate, and the ongoing politics and intrigue.

Ever since the death of your horse on that hunting trip you've found yourself wanting a new one, a proper one, not just some substitute. You visit all of the city's stables in search of a reliable, handsome beast.

You eventually settle on a good, piebald stallion. You decide to name him Sztylet – "Dagger" – in honor of your lifesaving tool. He's a…

[] destrier.

A great horse of cool-ish temperament, suitable for charges and the heaviest armor – as well as armor for the horse itself. Its precursor breeds were the favorite of Dark Age knights and their descendents are likewise loved by heavy cavalrymen across Christendom.

[ ] courser.

Nimble and hot-blooded, a courser carries less prestige but is still a fine horse. Better for speed and light armor on account of its slighter build and smaller size, it would be the perfect horse for fighting Turks and Tatars, who prefer a breed of a similar sort.

Another matter of settled life is the crystallization of your faith. With France and the skirmish weighing heavily on you, you need a permanent confessor.

You picked a friar of…

Note that this may affect your predisposition to patronizing monastics down the line.

[] The Jesuits.

The Jesuits are an order of contradictions. Prizing learning and humanism, they travel intrepidly to the furthest corners of the Earth to learn of its people and spread the word of God. Yet they also are the strongest proponents of the decisions of Trent, and are highly conservative on that matter. Without a doubt, Protestants will give you the side-eye.

[] The Dominicans.

The black friars of Saint Dominic, Dominicans are renowned for their Marian devotion and a mystic, Christ-centric outlook, not dissimilar from their more firebrand Carmelite cousins. A Dominican confessor would likely recommend lots of prayer and meditation, in an attempt to reveal divine mysteries and induce ecstatic experiences. Meanwhile, as a collective, Dominicans are known for their emphasis on education of the masses and evangelism, not unlike the Jesuits.

[] The Franciscans.

Emphasizing kindness and humility toward all living things, Franciscans lead the charge on modesty and alms for the poor among the monastics. Elevating the Eucharist and Mass to an awestruck celebration of the Savior's charity, they are perhaps the most emotional and least cerebral of the orders listed here. Ironically, though, their passion leads to frequent collaboration with the Inquisition and in that regard share the zeal of the Jesuits.

[] The Benedictines.

Diligence and a strict law define the Benedictines, who toil on the Earth to rest in Heaven and are renowned for their productive and industrious monasteries. Such a hardworking nature will surely be advocated for by a Benedictine confessor, who perhaps may be a pinch severe, likely advising you to keep pure through material restraint and the following of the Rule.

[] Just a regular priest, please.

Keep it simple. You never were all that interested in the monastics, anyway.

Life proceeded sleepily enough for the rest of the year til December, when word began to spread of the Frenchman's imminent arrival. Nobles gather at the Imperial border to see him and his purportedly gargantuan convoy, but you ultimately first see him at Kraków, looking as handsome and dastardly as ever.

Coronation Day looms as tall as the new king. You're getting a bit worried already. Word will have traveled of your stunt at the Confederation, and he will most certainly remember you from France.

Best of luck, lord prince.

 

[Rolman]

Failed to note:

The Jesuits are the new kids on the block in general when it comes to monastics, and they've only been in Poland for eight years. Many view them as foreign interlopers and Austrian proxies due to them primarily being German and Spanish.

 

[Rolman]

It's a funny thing: you hardly remember the wedding itself. You remember her coming with the dowry easily enough, how she wore her finest pearls, hair done up like an Italian, waiting with a smile. A full chest of gold and silver, a village's worth of serfs, some courser mares for Sztylet to establish a bloodline, a set of silver cutlery and cups, dresses for all of Mariana's ladies-in-waiting. It was humble, all things considered. Nothing like the tracts of the land that would've come with Princess Ostrogska.

But the ceremony was just too much; all of Wilno turned out in the streets and you hated it. Orthodox and Catholic clerics waving incense and flicking holy water, long readings of scripture, the sensation of every eye on you; peculiar, it is, the sensation is very different from those of your speeches. An itch-inducing sensation. Tomorrow is your birthing day.

And you hardly remember the feast, too, for that matter, as you ritualistically met gift with gift. Not much decorous downtime to speak with your new wife, ironically, and the dances were stiff and nothing like the flirtation of your first meeting. The food was the best money could buy. As was the wine — you knew that much.

No. What stands out clearly is when the night wound down, when you were left alone with the fresh-blessed marriage bed, the last of the revelers winding down outside. You were praying at the bed's foot when she entered. Praying while drunk, Goddamn you.

She took out the pins and you saw her hair down for the first time — before this was the first time without a headscarf. Less blonde and more honey-colored, the way it caught in the candlelight.

She began to take out her earrings, remove the necklaces, untie her corset. "I know how it works, you know," she says. Your stomach drops. "I stole an anatomist's book once."

Your mouth is slightly agape. Your head spins from more than just wine. You're not sure if you're being charitable or covering for yourself: "we don't have to."

She shrugs and snorts. "Well, you're the husband, and this is how any good marriage starts…" the corset comes off and you can see her real curves, trim on her frame but still there. She begins working on the dress itself, exposing the plain canvas shift beneath. She smiles. You think she's trying to hide some nerves of her own.

And you love watching it, knowing you'll be in this together, you feel a blooming, a heat; but something also is in your chest. It is pushing, gnawing, making your heart pound in all the wrong ways. You lose feeling in your hands and feet and your nose is numb. Your breathing quickens. Your lungs feel as if you have the flux again, wheezing and tight. You slump over the bed, landing on your elbows.

You stare at her and she stares at you. She smiles again. "What?" she asks. "Am I that..?" She chuckles. Her expression drops. "What?"

You try to talk but they're not words. You try again. And you begin to cry. She comes over with haste, wordless, and begins to massage your shoulders. "My lor— Stanisław, God be the judge for us, so if for some reason you don't want to… We can wait, He won't mind a little wait…"

You sob and try to get words out as the shaking begins. Your lips move and words come out but they're not words. This normally only happens during the quiet hours, when you're falling asleep or waking up. "No! No! It's not that — I do! That's the problem!" You climb onto the bed and make yourself small. "Crying! Look at me — crying! In front of you, in front of everybody! On my wedding night." In front of everybody? Why'd you say that?

She studies you with concern. "What do you mean?"

"I cannot be happy! It's like the pan fills up but goes off before I can get the shot down the barrel, I-I-I—"

"You were smiling out there. You weren't happy?"

"No– er– yes– I don't know! I couldn't focus. Everything was loud and everyone was staring."

"Please, Stanislaw, everyone gets rattled at a feast from time to time, I wouldn't—"

You beat your fists on the mattress as your nose runs. You care not about appearance. "You're not understanding! You're not understanding."

"I'm sorry." Nobody can think of what to say. It feels like a minute. She volunteers: "is it about something?"

"I'm not sure. I've been like this for as long as I can remember but… You know how my face was all mangled after I fought those outlaws?"

She keeps rubbing your shoulders. "God, how could I forget?"

"It's because one of them got on top of me. Tried beating me, strangling me. And I feel him still. Every night."

"Like the…" she gives an emphatic squeeze. "Like the Night Mare?"

"Yes. But so much worse. I see him when I'm awake. I can never move. I…. And I feel the bone in my neck crush and…"

"Oh, Stanisław." She slinks around you, hops up onto the bed and meets your eyes in a squat. She cups your face and you wince involuntarily. "But he didn't kill you. You're alive. With me." She gives you a gentle shake. "You're married now."

You shake your head. "There's just nothing I can do. Maybe I was meant to die—"

"Careful with that talk!" she seems serious. "There's no use questioning God; all it does is bring unwanted attention." She changes to a little grin, but her eyes are calculating something. "You know, you were speaking. Just now. As you were… fainting?"

"I try to talk and it doesn't work."

"But— but they were words." She looks up at the ceiling. "Like the Gift of Tongues? You know…" She quotes Corinthians: "indeed, no one understands him…"

"…for his soul speaks in mysteries." You know it, too. "Maybe." It feels strange to ask: "Have you ever seen God?"

"When I was a little girl, I saw angels everywhere." She looks a little sheepish. "I cried to the priest because I thought it meant I was a witch. I don't know where they went, but he said it meant I was blessed."

"I saw an angel too, once." You read her face. She's listening, of course. "Just last year, actually." Now she's really listening.

You tell her of the Reaping Angel in the doorway on your deathbed aboard the ship, of the relit candle. "Sometimes I feel watched. Like I'm under some sort of aegis."

"But it doesn't ever say 'not yet?' You don't know how you should die?"

"No."

"And you won't give up?"

"No."

"Then it's all just a test of His."

She kisses you. This is the first time. With anybody, that is. You thought it would feel warmer. Kiss back, fool!

You do. They arc into a few more, a push and pull. She draws away. "I saw you at the feast and knew you were special." She wipes your snot off her face, unperturbed, with a giggle.

"I…"

"We've both seen angels!" Her hands leave your cheeks and gently rake your hair. "Don't cry when there's angels about. It's all just a test."

"It's all just a test," you repeat. You're beginning to get a grip, but still feel numb; you can't tell if you're shaking.

"I'm glad you're getting a confessor; he'll know what to do, this isn't the place for wives."

"You're more than a wife."

Mariana beams her biggest smile yet. "Oh, come now. It's been a day and we've met, what, thrice?"

You scoff through your tears. "Well, whatever this is, there's a place for you in it."

"Are you ashamed to cry in front of a woman?"

"I was," you say, drying your eyes.

Another kiss. You're readier this time. "But..?"

"But you've seen angels, too." You sigh. "It means I'm not going insane."

She looks a little scandalized. Playful, that is. "And we've caught Pius doubting the Lord's work!"

"And you don't at times?"

"Oh, everyday," she laughs. "I mean, look at the world–"

"Finally–"

"Look at it! Any child could ask why it'd be that God would let Livonia be ravaged, why He'd let anywhere be ravaged."

"This is what I've been saying!"

She laughs into it. "But you clearly don't pray enough! You don't look about and take in, I don't know, the way a tree branches out like a hand, like the veins under the skin. I'm not accusing you…"

You shake your head. Please, Mariana. "Oh, that's it, looking at trees will make me forget that man atop me and…"

"Don't– aw, well, you know, I don't mean to make light of anything." She extends her hands. "Come now, up you go."

You sit limp. It's not like you're genuinely pouting; everything just feels heavy. She lays flat and starts trying to heave you up. "Come now, Stanisław, I'm sorry, truly…"

Her shoulders pop in unison! You're laughing. You clench and unclench your fist – it's back. You end up sitting beside her, unfolding your once-jellied legs. She rubs your back and presses the top of her head into your cheek. You can smell the scented oils on her, rosemary and lavender and something from the Indies. The warmth of her shoulder. You focus on your own breathing as silence descends.

"Let me see your hand," she says; you realize you've been gripping the tails of your tunic white-knuckled. She exhales through her nose. "I was looking for blood."

"From my nails digging..? Oh, nails…" you snort. You snort at God.

"Do make sure you're not joking," she teases. Yet you very much want to make sure you're not joking. "What I saw, what I saw on your face and in your eyes…"

"What, you think that–"

"Yes. I know you haven't much faith at the moment, but don't forget the ship. What you just told me." She wraps her arms loosely around your shoulders. She leans in close to your ear. "Do trust a woman's intuition. There's something special about you."

You're numb enough to parry. "Pffp. You're a seductress."

"I'm not talking about loving you. You… You shot that deer on our hunting trip but I saw the way you look at birds." She withdraws. "It's alright, much has happened tonight."

"Poetic." You look at her. "What's it mean?"

She smiles. It's of a softer kind. "It's hard to explain. You… appreciate things."

A chat with van Gistel and Marszowski and your brothers – they talk about killing how peasants do slaughtering goats. Why does Sin seem to weigh so much more heavily upon you?

"I don't know what to say."

"Then let's to bed. I'm sorry if I'm not making sense." Mariana begins to climb back on the bed with a hand around your wrist; you come with her. Your head hits the pillow and immediately things seem far away. You finally, truly exhale. Lead-heavy. All of you. "Let me get out of my skirt and hose and shoes and things," she says. She leaves your view and you miss her as your eyes fall shut of their own accord.

You awaken unable to breathe, a horrible pain and pushing about your neck. You feel cold sweat and your eyes bulge out of your head and try to adjust to the light. You swing up to punch but cannot move your arms, you try and fail to buck your hips or kick or do anything. You're completely frozen as the silhouette manifests above you. He reeks of a man who lives in the forest and survives by killing. He is working on you right now. You cannot scream nor speak nor even whisper prayers as tears singe across the cool of your face. Your vision turns pinholes and pinholes into a telescope held in reverse and crack!

You're born again; you're screaming. "Stanisław!" Mariana. "Stanisław." You recoil at the hand that touches your face. "Stanisław." She shushes you and wriggles up to you. You're not under the covers but she is. In fact, you're fully clothed. She whispers calming words as you come back into your body.

You sit up. Your breathing grows less ragged. You look for moonlight out the window and can find none.

"I didn't want to move you," she says. "I thought it was for the best that you fell asleep so fast. You should get under the covers."

You do so mechanically, without undressing. She says nothing. You sigh and rub your face and stare at the ceiling. "It was the brigand," you say.

"I know." You feel a hand reach out and touch you around the ribcage, swiping your cloak aside to rest it on the fabric of your tunic. You exhale and rest your palm atop the back of her hand. "God is with you, Stanisław. It's all going to be alright."

You reach out to touch her and recoil back. "Cold!" she hisses, kicking her feet. She stifles a laugh. "What?" she splutters, "we're married!"

You know what you want to do but aren't quite sure how. You send out a fumbling hand.

"Cold, cold," she giggles, pulling your hand up against her and into the heat of her torso, you're not sure where. "At least warm them up."

You laugh from a place of indecision. She tenses under you as you move the hand around, slowly, tentatively – is it the cold or is she really tensing? – soft shoulder, the bump and dip of the collarbone, a gently vein-ridged neck. She guides your other hand to what must be her sternum.

"Why so far away?" You can tell she's smiling, even in the dark. You wriggle closer. "Kiss me."

You do.

 

[Rolman]

You are weak. You are falling to pieces. Turn to God. Saul on the road to Damascus.

You are weak and falling to pieces by your own fault, of course, by your sinning mouth and hands and mind. You have killed, you have poisoned yourself, you have possessed thoughts of lust and rage and it is on account of these that you find yourself tested now.

The wolves in Paris still chase you in your dreams. And there is the one that comes now where you're hunted as a fox, dodging arrows and booming shot.

The headaches come near-daily. They make you bitter and tired – a threat to poor Mariana – and by dinnertime you're near-drunk and falling half-asleep. These things we know painfully well.

You know, she knows, they know, and now he knows. Friar Gosiewski. He speaks very little; when he does it is in the imperative, unadorned and harsh. He is never not clean-shaven, never not awake or asleep when he is meant to be.

You wanted a Benedictine because, as the months went on, as Mariana never fell pregnant, you felt increasingly as if you were under a curse of your own making. The days began to blend together in a haze of wine and wandering, wine and wandering, from the Castle to Wilno and back for no particular reason, nearly everyday. You took up throwing dice with the burghers, sipping spirits, and even downing ale like a commoner. It took vomiting on the table in front of a bunch of Swedes for you to face the facts: God is letting you slip down the cracks. The cracks of your own unwatered earth, perhaps. For too long you have relied on rote, you realize: Ave Marias and Pater Nosters and meditations before your shrine to the Mother.

Now is the time for action. For change. Friar Gosiewski is happy to oblige.

His small head peers at you from its nest of thick brown robes. "My child, tell me exactly what it is that ails you."

You stammer out the complaints: the drink, the headache, melancholia, the nerves, the nightmares. How the usual meditations and rituals no longer bring peace. How surgeons and physicians and alchemists and astrologers — you've tried them all.

He nods along, brow knit, hand on chin. "You are troubled indeed."

"Indeed."

"Tell me — what are your desires?"

You never really thought about it. You're always at the beck and call of others; their whims come first. It feels silly: "to make this go away. To feel happy again."

"Did you forget, though, son, that suffering is the highest of the holy mortifications? Happiness and the light of God are sisters, not twins."

"I'm a killer." You blurt it out. "And a liar and oath-breaker and I'm covetous and–"

"Many in your worldly profession are. Many among you have souls in crisis." He smiles. "Or else there would be no need for personal confessors." He clears his throat. "The stain of Adam and Eve has merely grown within you, my child, and the goodness of your soul rejects it. There is a war within yourself."

You grimace. "A kind of spiritual… expulsion, then?"

"Yes, much like when the body is sick. Tell me, what do you know of the Rule of Saint Benedict?" he asks.

"A bit… We examined the Church Fathers in my studies."

"Then you have so much more to learn, my child." He rises. "The Rule is a good and Godly one and it is one that must be lived. We will restore you to good health yet."

Here is the way that you have chosen to live, the way to which God has drawn you:

Remember that all good comes through Him. The good within yourself is merely held on credit.

Prayer for the eight Hours, never to be missed. A mixture of sleep in the daytime and wakefulness by night. Study of the Book, which you must keep with you at all times, ought to accompany these prayers. Memorize the right psalms for the right times.

A pound of white bread a day, less fruits and vegetables, and even less meat and fish. Two meals a day. Sleep no more than eight hours.

You are ordered – yes, ordered – to create a garden in Dubinki and to tend to it every day possible. You end up planting turnips, broad beans, and a medley of flowers.

No wine except for that which becomes the Blood. Beer once a day, to be drunk from a clay pitcher as a serf.

Give shelter to all pilgrims, vagrants, lunatics, cripples, orphans, and widows. Honor the elderly and protect the young.

Answer sin with shame and sorrow. Fasting, prayer, and isolation is the cure.

Hate all strife as the utmost sin. Put to rest conflict between men and most importantly quiet your own will, your pride, your anger – peace within oneself is surrender.

Avoid amusement. Avoid dancing and music. Avoid excessive laughter and the frivolities that provoke it.

Be chaste. Cleanse oneself upon engaging in impurities, even with your own wife.

Pray for your greatest faults. Pray on your murders and your cowardice in the face of the murder of others. Pray for your anger and envy and impatience.

That the Rule must be upheld as much as your princely station can allow.

And you commit yourself completely. All your Father says when he hears of this is: "I was young and fearful once."

Your head pounds for a week or a two. You sweat and jump out of your skin at any and everything. You shed weight as you shed the bunkum of alchemy and astrology, of Tatjana's old yarns. You survive on bread and water and tend to the garden all summer, giving yourself a peasant's tan. Mariana merely watches, spends more time with her ladies-in-waiting. Marszowski is pushed away. You crop your hair short and try to speak less. You begin to wear blue daily to honor the Virgin.

The Thirty-First Psalm becomes a favorite. The Parable of the Sheep and Goats. The Fourth Timothy.

You feel clean, yet in the mirror you can see your ribs with ease.