Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

To see them made the difference of a year into an island. Their dress so similar to what you wore only recently, swaggering with their rapiers and peaked velvet hats and gold earrings, trousers billowing, faces recognizable and indeed familiar by name; these foreigners were family for a very long while. More than a few light up with recognition and wave – you reluctantly reciprocate – but no sign of Pierre d'Arces or the wise Seigneur de Montaigne or even the friendly wolf-man-oddity Gonsalvus give you reason to stay withdrawn.

After all, the new King is far from a friend, and possesses clout in mountains miles-high in his homeland. Any Frenchman could be a spy. You find it easy to be suspicious these days. What a rude awakening last year was.

You take it all in: one of Wawel's great halls brimming with a major portion of the French court. Their camp outside the city walls mixed with the nobles' and dignitaries' and lordling hustlers' to create a little city, a worthy rival to Warszawa's sejm camp. Who'd've thought of such a thing? The powdered faces of Paris mingling with mustachioed men in furs and long tunics, the Kraków streets flecked white with Western ruffs. We live in times of change indeed, times of danger. Times, you worry, of savagery. What will become of a Gallian Polonia? You feared that it could be nothing good.

Yet you wish you could've seen the entry of the Walezy column into the city; indeed, the sight was head-spinning, they say, banners and attendants and valets stretching for miles, carts full of silver and gold, the streets lined with every cast and caste of man, woman, and child. It certainly seemed like it could've been partly true. At least the coming of a tyrant was done with an evil fanfare, you thought to yourself darkly. For the people do always appreciate majesty.

Wherever he went, a little bubble would form around him. The King-elect would simultaneously attract and repel, pulling all men in a given radius close to him until they collide into the royal person's invisible wall some few feet shy of the body. It is a peculiar phenomenon you easily recall from France. Your hazy memories of Wawel in the days of Zygmunt August couldn't tell you anything about how things used to be. Hopefully such behavior is normal, and not distinct in its character.

More than once did you make eye contact with the Frenchman, and more than once did you both balk. The next day came with the seal unbroken.

Packed into Wawel Cathedral like salting fish, you took up a prime, princely position in pews close to the altar, sandwiched between your brothers and the brothers Zborowski. Regal Jan, proper Andrzej and the bulldog of a little brother, Samuel. They're introduced as friends of the family in the long wait for the beginning of the ceremony. The attention turns to you as brother Krzysztof mentions your years in France.

Samuel grunts. "Your Serene Highness, do tell us: how does such vanity exist beside bloody war?"

Andrzej smiles and gives the hand for 'you go, please.'

"I think it's because they're vicious from the cradle," you say; it's your honest answer, nevermind the exceptions. "The powdered faces and the golden everything is to hide themselves. It's not their fault."

"Oh?" asks Andrzej.

"I think when a man is born into war and opulence it's the only thing to be grasped in life." You scoff. "Half of them don't even learn Latin."

Andrzej chuckles. "It's rather exciting, isn't it, Your Serene Highness?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"That we've elected a man from a race of wealthy, vicious fools to be our king." He smiles and crosses his arms. "We will play his favorite lute pieces as we pluck him."

Septimus is looking around saying "Careful, careful…" as Samuel laughs boisterously. Krzysztof calls Andrzej a good man.

"He's certainly out of his element," agrees Septimus, still waving for quiet.

"I don't know, sirs," you say, somehow dividing your eye contact amongst the four of them. "He's as smart as he is mean. Any man can be taken off-guard"

"Maybe so, Your Serene Highness," says Samuel, "but him and what army, eh?"

"You know, Your Serene Highness' cousin the Prince Court Marshal and I came upon him commanding a siege," says Jan, "bearing the big news for him, no less. Indeed, it was a good siege, but nevermind – we had him swear to the Confederation on the spot, right there in his tent. Like it was nothing. Such was the size of our delegation."

"Indeed. Stronger together," agrees Samuel. "The caving-in type."

"People-pleasing," you say, feeling like a hypocrite. "But he's strong! You've seen what he can do."

You must have summoned him – heads and turn and a wave of shushing fills the Cathedral as the musicians begin to play. Once-muffled cheering pours into the cathedral as its heavy doors open. The King enters.

The chorus swells in the singing of a psalm as the doors shut behind him, and you're able to lean out into the aisle: he looks, as ever, like Prince Alexandre, but something is changing in him. His coronation robes, his posture and soldierly forward march – he is the King. The King. You think him to be no King, yet the air somehow vibrates around him. He looks stately, his handsome face framed in gold thread, light dancing on his blemishless skin.

You turn your attention to the altar, the lightning rod between man and God. Father is somewhere up there, clustered among the most elite, hidden behind cardinal red and peacock feathers. You cannot see him. The Lord will bless this reign, hopefully, you think bitterly. For you and many others will do no such thing. The Archbishop presides over the crown jewels, waiting atop the altar. The King moves toward his traditional seat to await blessing and crowning. But right as he makes himself comfortable, a booming voice makes you jump in place.

"My King!" A thousand heads turn at once. The voice is close to you, across the aisle and not far from the front. People are shifting in one spot. "My King!"

The Frenchman looks around in a squat, eyes wide, half-sitting; he stands up again.

You recognize that voice! "My King, I have something for you to see!"

Lord Firlej emerges from the crowd, a scroll under his arm, clutching a quill and inkwell in one hand. He speedwalks up the aisle to meet the King. Alexandre makes sure to project. "And what may I– we, do for this subject?"

Cheers and jeers begin to emanate from the crowd. You clap your hands over your mouth in a bid to not laugh. The Zborowski brothers subtly pat each other on the back.

"In France it is said that Your Majesty did assent to our Confederation on the freedom of faith. So, sign, King, you promised! Before your loyal people!"

The King forces a snarling grin. "We shall sign it, surely. Is now the place, my lord?"

"Oh, but it is, King!" Cheers are beginning to defeat Firlej's hecklers. The Frenchman almost jogs in place. He says something inaudible, shakes his head, and quickly swipes the quill across the scroll. A large portion of those in attendance burst into applause. The bishops and cardinals sit with legs crossed, glaring.

"Cheer in your minds, sirs," says Septimus quietly. "But cheer loudly."

"I am a rude man!" declares Firlej, turning his attention to the cathedral at large. He's won. "Undeniably so. But with indecorous gusto shall we inform any man, King or not, of our laws and our privileges, and of our dedication to such!" He launches into a speech, the assembled lords losing themselves to sejm-style cheering and jeering. The Archbishop Uchański sits statuesque.

Andrzej Zborowski turns to you. "And this is exactly what I was hoping for," he says, beaming. "Welcome indeed to our nobles' republic."

The rising of the Archbishop to begin Mass cuts short Firlej's speech. The firebrand retreats into the crowd as the Catholics – yourself included – become much more serious. You're aware of its weaponization, but the ritual cannot be stopped and so comes the time for prayer and surrender. And may the surrender of any honorable nobleman belong only to God.

Such was the toast that night; you abandoned Friar Gosiewski's precepts to sin in celebration, eating every meat but chicken and washing it down with good wine.

You find Lord Firlej speaking with none other than Andrzej Zborowski – a fellow Protestant, you recall – and shake the former's hand heartily as he smiles through his beard.

"Now that was a show, Lord Firlej!" you say. "Way to show the man!" you manage to not curse.

He rumbles a laugh. "Hopefully, it'll make some woodblocks. But the rumor mill will do fine, too." He shakes your hand again. "Thank you, Your Serene Highness. And congratulations on your marriage"

Lord Zborowski gets a handshake as well. You remember Sierotka's rant on court life and exhale. The fatigue is growing. The headaches are still near-daily.

You take Lord Zborowski in before he speaks, goblet in hand: skinny and taller than you, the perfect opposite to his stout and short brother, he's got an odd, sort of bird-like handsomeness to him. He styles his mustache and beard into points. "Indeed, may God bless your union. You know, I'm surprised this is only the second time we've spoken, Your Serene Highness," he says. "After all, we both want a Habsburg."

No no no. The Zborowscy went hard for the French option from start to finish.

He studies you. "You weren't aware, lord prince? Well, it was a bit of a lost cause this election…"

The months have convinced you of the righteousness of the cause. See how he's pivoted. You grin. "After seeing such a shout-down, sir! As if the Emperor could ever tread on us."

"Precisely. As if there isn't everything to gain. We have our figurehead for now. I look forward to working with you, Your Serene Highness." He still looks friendly, but something's wavered in his tone. "May we take a walk, Your Serene Highness?"

You agree and excuse yourself from Firlej, who peers over his nose with interest, and find some alcove in a palace corridor to speak. "As you may or may not know, I'm rather close to the King, what with my being his traveling companion and all," explains Zborowski. "So I'm a bit of a minister to him, a representative of our will. And, as a favor for your standing up for the Emperor, I just wanted to warn you: the King is already quite upset with you. Both from some squabble in France, I'm told, and from your speech." He grimaces. "Which, obviously, he's heard about. Lord prince, I'll try and talk some sense into him, but you ought to prepare yourself."

"For what exactly, Lord Zborowski?"

"For something pointed, Your Serene Highness. Not quite sure yet."

You feel nervous yet the wine makes you not care. You joke to Firlej that you're going to be executed for your speech and he wishes you Godspeed. The morning after is when you truly begin to feel like your head is on the block. Your brothers and father worry for you. They remain in Kraków in solidarity.a

The King called upon you a week after his coronation, early in the morning. No warning from Zborowski.

"I think my head's on the block, Mariana," you tell her. "Anything could happen short of being arrested."

"They've got laws, Stanisław; I don't think anything is going to happen to the family. This won't be like Lublin."

"But then what do you think'll–"

"I think you're going to be gloated at, or scolded like a schoolboy, or maybe handed some sort of undesirable task." She speaks smoothly and clearly, quietly calming. She chuckles. "He's going to try and scare you."

"No… No… Maybe if this is one of our he-men. He's got some sort of plot, I know it."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, plot or not, he's the fish out of water, not you." she taps your nose. "Just remember that he may need you. Older brothers thrash little ones, but there's still a reliance." A kiss. "You'll be alright," she says.

Ten minutes' wait before the usher allows you to see His Majesty.

He does not rise when you enter the royal bedchamber; the King sits at his desk and rotates in his chair to face you. You bow deeply and he addresses you in French. "We are pleased to see you in good health again, Radzivilius Princeps. Or, we have been advised to use 'Your Serene Highness.'"

You're frozen up. "I am honored, Your Majesty," you say, as if to dip your toe in the water.

"We call upon you this day because we have further been advised that you are without office. We understand that an Imperial Prince ought not suffer such a fate, we think, and this realm is in need of passionate men for passionate work."

He grins. "However. And we care not if it leaves this room: in memoriam of your heroic stands for veritas et iustitia – for we figure you prefer Latin – we are in a rather stormy mood. Thus, your job shall be of a lowly nature for that of your birth and nature. You shall be an example. We also would wager that it will take a decent while for His Serene Highness to prove himself."

He cares not for your reaction."However, a friend has convinced us to offer you but one mercy. You may not know your office, but you may choose how to serve us. Shall you be in our household, shall you be as a steward, or shall you live in a soldier's tent?"

Zborowski's gesture of goodwill seems to have been genuine, even if he couldn't properly warn you. Why is he being your friend all of a sudden?

In any event, a (perhaps dis-)passion takes you over. It is time to either say what you want or say what you must. You reply:

[] "In Your Majesty's household."

Hellfire. Stay at Kraków under the King's thumb.

[] "As a steward of Your Majesty's."

Goddamn. Surely something dreary and provincial.

[] "In the armies of Your Majesty."

Damn his eyes. Either dangerous or boring.

[] "I shall have none of this, Your Majesty."

Oh? OH?!

 

[Sertorius]

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…"

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Actually rich nobles tended to be as such more often than not. Having no worries about food or money, they could do whatever they wanted and sometimes that lead to various eccentricities and quirks.

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

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You wanted it, you got it. The Rule of St. Benedict was actually historically very important, as it was the first such ordinance in the Western Church. The famous quote ora et labora (pray and work) is taken directly from it. All the monastic orders in later centuries up until today based their ways upon the Rule of St. Benedict. It was the template, upon which everyone else worked to codify their own standards.

Packed into Wawel Cathedral like salting fish, you took up a prime, princely position in pews close to the altar, sandwiched between your brothers and the brothers Zborowski. Proper Andrzej and the bulldog of a little brother, Samuel.

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The Zborowski family was a prominent one in the Crown. There are 6 Zborowski brothers, with only three seen here and all have risen high. Jan Zborowski may be currently the most famous (he was the one that went to bring back the King from France and is currently the Court Crown Hetman, having commanded the war efforts in Livonia with successes), but it was his brother Samuel that would rise well above everybody else. He will become the first great infamis of the Commonwealth, a legendary and infamous adventurer, troublemaker, murderer and even a Hetman of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. The "Zborowski Case" in about ten years time from now, will shake the Crown to its core and bring about the downfall of the entire family, slipping it into obscurity.

I have to say a few words about the second (after freedom) most important thing for the nobility of the Commonwealth. I'm talking about fantasy (yes, you heard me right). It's hard to explain exactly what fantasy was, since it's a very cultural-specific thing. However, I shall do what I can. It may be understood as a combination of charm, wits, honour, eccentricity, valour, high alcohol tolerance and oratory. The nobility showed a great deal of respect to men, who behaved according to certain cultural standards, that were understood as fantasy. It is exactly why the various scoundrels and murderers mentioned here were protected by the general nobility and held in high regard (with the exception of their victims of course) as paragons of fantasy. Any man can become an infamis in absentia. However, to be a true infamis required a great deal of fantasy, therefore in time the term ment not just criminals, but heroic outlaws Robin Hood-style. Of course the vast majority of them were terrible people, but for the noble populus they personified what it is to be a truly free nobleman, that can do whatever he wants.

In short, fantasy is sort of rogue-ish, not the knight in shining armour type thing.

A few examples:

A noble, that can drink a lot of alcohol all night, while entertaining his fellow men with funny and witty tales, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that gives a fine speech before a crowd, while mentioning some Roman classics at that, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that ties a naked Catholic priest to a horse and has him run around blindly in a crowded town, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that generously buys everyone drinks while overpaying, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that dresses in outlandish colours with gems and silver, is a man of fantasy.
A noble, that sneaks into a tent of an enemy general in the middle if his own camp to abduct him and escape unharmed, is a man of great fantasy.
A noble, that whips half a town of serfs just because they forgot to remove their caps while he was moving past them, is a man of great fantasy.
A noble, that escapes the dungeon of his hated foe by pretending to be somebody else and returns with an army behind his back to exact revenge, is a man of great fantasy.

To compare, Lord Firlej's stunt above, was a a sign of great fantasy, since he was able to do such an outrageous act and get away with it.

 

[Sertorius]

Just a few more things regarding fantasy.

Besides clothing, your very hairstyle could be seen as very... trendy. Fo instance, Zaporozhian Cossacks were famous for the osełedec, that is a single long clump of hair, that they grew from the top of their heads, while shaving the rest. Add the long (and I mean long) moustache and tie it up together with the long osełedec and you have peak fantasy, that even the nobles appreciated.

A real-life example: one infamis and his band of misfits were drinking in some tavern in town. Suddenly they decided to make a bet: they'll go to one of the town entries and beat up the first man that exists the place. So, when they arrived a carriage was just leaving. The passenger happened to be a Jesuit priest. The band shouted "Huzzah, get him!" When the terrified priest asked why are they assaulting him, the group calmly explained their bet. So, the Jesuit then responded immediately:

"In that case you are mistaken sirs. I wasn't the first to leave town, it was my coachman."

The band laughed at this witty display of fantasy and promptly beat up the poor servant instead.

In general, the more crazy, outrageous, outlandish and downright death-defying stunt you pull off and escape the consequences, the more fantasy you have.

 

[Kir the Wizard]

I have to say a few words about the second (after freedom) most important thing for the nobility of the Commonwealth. I'm talking about fantasy (yes, you heard me right). It's hard to explain exactly what fantasy was, since it's a very cultural-specific thing. However, I shall do what I can. It may be understood as a combination of charm, wits, honour, eccentricity, valour, high alcohol tolerance and oratory. The nobility showed a great deal of respect to men, who behaved according to certain cultural standards, that were understood as fantasy. It is exactly why the various scoundrels and murderers mentioned here were protected by the general nobility and held in high regard (with the exception of their victims of course) as paragons of fantasy. Any man can become an infamis in absentia. However, to be a true infamis required a great deal of fantasy, therefore in time the term ment not just criminals, but heroic outlaws Robin Hood-style. Of course the vast majority of them were terrible people, but for the noble populus they personified what it is to be a truly free nobleman, that can do whatever he wants.

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And the historical mythos was used as "justification" for this cultural phenomenon. Eastern Europe was a bit of a latecomer to Renaissance trends, but collecting Roman-era maps and writings became an especially popular pastime. Since the Romans often extended "Sarmatia" all the way to the Baltics on such maps, it became a popularized metaphor of the Commonwealth, and the nobility enjoyed the idea of themselves as Sarmatians (with whom they associated fancy clothing and hair styles, particular armor and armaments, great cat skins etc.), and even used that idea to promote their particular feudal system and conquest, downsizing entire peoples, or even their own peoples, into being the denizens of "Scythians, who got conquered by Sarmatians", thus claiming the right to rule over them.
How did the "Scythians" react? Some took pride in it, like a rebellion of sorts, example being Hryhoryi Hrabianka. Some disagreed, arguing that Scythians and Sarmatians were already close relatives to make much distinction between them. For example, Samiylo Velychko wrote: "Look, you free neighboring peoples of all tribes and languages, at what then was done in defiance of God's and natural rights to the free noble, Sauromatian, Cossack-Ruthenian, people, who had long been famous for their courage and courageous warlike deeds not only in their own Europe, but in distant Asian countries, and another folk, also a Sauromatian one - the Poles, which has always been a brother to the Cimbrians, Scythians and Cossacks!"
So, while Sarmatism was undeniably firstmost a Polish "thing", Lithuanian and Ruthenian nobility also got onto it, although the latter continued to make up new weird quasi-historical analogues. Extrapolating from the location of Alania (East Sarmatia, now known as Ossetia) at the Caucasus mountains, they tried to tie the Khazars (spelled in Ukrainian as "Hozary") to the whole Sarmatian mythos (you can already see that in Hrabianka's writings), and from there make a linguistic "link" towards Cossacks (in Ukrainian also spelled with an "o", despite the word's seemingly obvious origin in the Turkic "Qazaq", possibly because there was still the influence of the word «Cosac», meaning watchmen or guardians, mentioned in the 14th century's Codex Cumanicus as a Cuman word). Thus 18th century Cossacks practiced not just Sarmatism, but also "Khazarism", associating Khazar's with Cossack-specific boldness and military campaigns. In both cases, little actual study of the history of Sarmats of Khazars was done to support these justifications.
Aside from Khazars, another Sarmatian-adjusted myth amongst the Ruthenians was specific to the Roxolani tribe (another Indo-Iranian tribe of late Roman era, either a part of the Sarmatians, or adjusted to them), with Roxolania/Roxolana being used as synonymous of Ruthenia/Ukraine when translating into Latin. Various figures of culture of the described era used "Roxolan" as a pen-name/self-id of sorts, to describe their land of origin. Furthermore, in Muscovy Ivan the Terrible also chose the Roxolani as an origin point of history for his realm, although in the next century it would be moved all the way to the grandsons of Noah.

 

[Rolman]

In moments such as these, God calls for tranquility, for patience, for a level head. You want to yell, swear enmity against him, but what would Christ do? What would Friar Gosiewski say? That this is a mere flesh wound upon the mind and soul, no, this is hardly even a scratch, dealt out by a man with a miniscule soul. Wherever you go, God will go with you. Play his game.

"As a steward of Your Majesty's."

"Very good," says the king, devoid of any real reaction. "Congratulations, then. We hereby bestow upon you the castellancy of…" he looks back at his desk, at the parchments splayed across its tabletop. "Orsa Rutheniae. Congratulations, too, then, on your senatorial rank."

Orsza. You try to calculate in the blink of an eye: Witebsk Voivodeship, by the Muscovite border, smaller town… Krzysztof nearby… Castellans don't usually have to actually manage a damn thing… And you are a senator… "I am honored, Your Majesty."

"Mhm. You will report to that city by mid-April where we expect you to work closely with a man named K— kuhmeet— Kmita, your… Deputy? How is it said… But he's also a spymaster of ours, with a web all across Muscovy." Oh. Oh. And, as if the King can read your mind: "Thusly we expect neither substitution nor absenteeism, no matter how customary it may be among your people. We have men who will be in touch with us regarding your performance."

Blast. It won't be a sinecure. And are "men" spies? Surely. This Kmita fellow himself? O, Lord — Orsza, who ever talks about Orsza? What a mess. "I am honored, Your Majesty," you say again.

"Although you may be of superior rank, we expect you to defer to and help Lord Kmita, on account of his importance and experience. Besides that, ensure taxes are paid, people are protected," he waves his hand. "You understand."

"I do, Your Majesty. God guide me."

"Yes, let us hope," says the King. He does that thing that he does – checking his nails, that is. "You are a most interesting Prince." You don't say anything. "Picking townsman-work over battle or a position as our cellar-master, willing to speak against us in France and here, make your mind known at Meaux and at this… Confederation." He smiles. "Yet unwilling to say a thing against us now. The pious humanist, the shy orator – the brave coward?"

Just breathe. Bear the wounds. Jesus guides you, not him. The King continues: "we are most interested to see how you fare on the border; it may be a nasty place. Best of luck. That is all. Congratulations again."

"Your Majesty," you say as a farewell with a bow. That's all you could say.

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. You danced around in a little circle, angrily swinging at the air, feeling like a child, as soon as you could find a quiet corridor. You went to Friar Gosiewski that night – before Mariana or Marszowski or anybody – and you found yourself frustrated with him. The Rule possesses very little to say on a matter so secular and so all you got was Daniel and David again. In short, the usual. Make like a good judge from Deuteronomy. Such as in Corinthians and John, he said, those without love exist without truth anyways – his duplicity could never win and will undo him. And, yes, fine, lovely, the man's bound for the Pit, we know that.

"Mariana," you say, making her look up from her tapestry-weaving.

Things have changed. You've calmed her down some. You worry she may just be a little scared of you. "Yes, husband?"

"The King gave me an office. Castellan of Orsza."

Her big eyes blink. "That… Sounds lovely? You're a senator now."

You sigh. "But I'm expected to be at Orsza. As in genuinely, really there. Working."

"Oh."

"So we're going to Orsza. By the end of March if we can help it."

"Alright." She doesn't betray anything save for that blinking. "As you say, husband. Won't you come to–"

"I haven't prayed Compline yet. I'm sorry."

"Shall… I can join you, maybe? You know the Hours are different in my church. But prayer is prayer, says I."

You snort. "Don't be silly. There ought not be women around for me, and you can't just sidle in without knowing the Breviarum."

Hear me when I call, o my righteous God.

Thou turnest men to destruction; and sayest, "Return, ye children of men."

Stabilitate. Conversatio morum. Oboedientia. Ora et labora.

Holy oil upon Aaron's head, in his beard, down his tunic, washing over him. Such is the love of God for man. One need only look up.

You exhale through your nose. Scripture doesn't account for much of the Rule, the Rule doesn't account for all the scripture. "I don't mean to be severe, Mariana," you say, knowing that you are, in fact, being severe.

Her head cocks ever so slightly. "Thank you."

"It's just… Now is not the time. I need to be clean. I've faced such punishment and received such messages and I need to be clean." And now an inhale. Clench and unclench your fists. "Perhaps I'm… Trying too hard. Benedict calls for stability and balance above all else, but…"

"Dare I say, you're trying to be somewhat… Somewhat paschal? You just… One day, everything's back to life?"

"Yes, maybe, and that's blasphemy." She stays silent. "You? For saying that. Me? For, well," you look down at the blue you're wearing. "I mean, by God–" you catch yourself. You pull at the fabric. "What am I, a Pharisee? Who am I trying to impress?"

"Maybe yourself?" she asks meekly. Her smile and chuckle is even more furtive. "Clothes making the man?"

"Maybe. Let me pray on this." You're thinking about too many things at once, too many little sparks flying about in your head. Is it always war, must it always last forever?

The answer is complicated, you decide. You'll need to talk to the Friar about this but, upon a night of meditation on the psalms, of your lessons in France both formal and informal: yes, it is war, and, yes, it must last until the End Time. Yet the Armor of God cannot be found in mere blue cloth; when the Christ said He brought not peace but a sword, He spoke not of war on earth but the division of the world, the separating of parts by clean cuts. Cropping your hair is no tonsure, no. Shaving your mustache purifies nothing. To be sure, drink and dance and fine food leads to the Devil, but you wonder, perhaps, about moderating the moderation.

Thankfully, there's a perfect way of testing the waters. In fact, you're the island. Indeed, Kraków has been alive for days now, a great French-style coronation tourney just about ready to unfold, raucous and dangerous and brimming with what used to be fun for you. A few hundred florins in damage, Samuel Zborowski on the run for ax-murder, and thousands of gallons of alcohol poured into the gullets of thousands of nobles.

What do you wind up doing?

[] Tilting.

See if you can remember what you picked up in France, while simultaneously putting the rumors of cowardice to rest in front of just about everybody. Show off Sztylet in challenges of arms and borrow a destrier for a real joust. Sporting isn't the worst sin!

[] Feasting.

Alright, so, you lost yourself a little. Temptation all about. Enjoy the festivities, the pleasures, have a chat with old Marszowski and make a few new friends, too. However – if a man wishes to politick, gluttony may just have to be the spiritual price.

[] Getting to Orsza.

Let's get out of here. This place smells like Hell.

 

[Sertorius]

"Very good," says the king, devoid of any real reaction. "Congratulations, then. We hereby bestow upon you the castellancy of…" he looks back at his desk, at the parchments splayed across its tabletop. "Orsa Rutheniae. Congratulations, too, then, on your senatorial rank."

Orsza. You try to calculate in the blink of an eye: Witebsk Voivodeship, by the Muscovite border, smaller town… Krzysztof nearby… Castellans don't usually have to actually manage a damn thing… And you are a senator… "I am honored, Your Majesty."

Click to shrink...

Orsza actually has some history behind it. A border town, it was the site of 3 battles against Muscovy (1508, 1514, 1564). The most famous of these is of course the great victory in the second battle, where the Grand Lithuanian Hetman Prince Konstanty Ostrogski crushed a numerically superior enemy force. Fun fact: a few years earlier he was taken prisoner by Moscow, but managed to escape after feigning cooperation and swearing oaths before the Moscow Metropolitan (he was Orthodox) to serve the local Grand Duke. Keep in mind, such changes in allegiance happened surprisingly often, with Ruthenian Princes from both sides of the border going over to the enemy. Prince Mikołaj Radziwiłł the Red commanded in that last battle from ten years back.

The place is right next to the Dniepr river. It's Starosta is Filon Kmita-Czarnobylski (or just Filon Kmita, the second part is due to him becoming the owner of Czarnobyl... yes, that Chernobyl), an Orthodox middle nobleman from Ruthenia-Ukraine, that stayed in the service of the GDL after his home became part of the Crown. He was a frontier fighter of great skill and renown that raided Muscovite lands more than once during the Livonian Wars, now he sits there and guards the border, while collecting any useful intel.

A few words about the office:

There are a lot of offices for the rich and mighty (well, not that many, but they are diverse) and even more for the regular nobles (but still not enough for everyone).

You see, because titles have been banned, the nobles wished to elevate their names by holding an office. The vast majority of offices were only titular and symbolic. They had to do literally nothing. Even so, with that many nobles in the Commonwealth, there was still a great hunger for more titles because there weren't enough posts for everybody. Therefore the country has developed an unprecedented rule (again). Children and grandchildren of an office holder held their own honorary titles based upon the post of their ancestor. So, a son of a Starosta was a Starościc, and a grandson of one was a Starostowicz. Of course this rule was for the regular nobles, since the rich were always guaranteed to have some offices of their own so they did not bother with this nonsense.

A Castellan (Kasztelan) was mostly a symbolic office, but of senatorial rank (he was a member of the Senate, that sat and discussed with the King during parliamentary sessions). It's an office given mostly to the middle nobles and some rich ones (the Kasztelan of Kraków was formally the highest secular senatorial office, but it was mostly for prestige). The military formally had only Hetman offices (high command), while a Regimentarz was a temporary substitute chosen by a Hetman, the King as Commander-in-Chief or by the soldiers themselves, when the regular ones were unavailable for one reason or the other. The highest regular rank in the military was one of Colonel (Pułkownik). Above him were the Hetmans. A noble cannot be forced to serve, unless in the levée en masse, therefore the King cannot send us to an obscure post if we don't want it, since with our money and private armies we can do whatever we want militarily. As for an office to govern, 9/10 a rich noble never even visited the place, being happy with the title and letting a subordinate do the hard work, while he spends time in his estate drinking and partying.

Once a powerful office and now but a shadow of itself, the Castellan gets to only do one thing. To lead the local levée en masse to its concentration point designated by the Voivode. Since rich nobles have better things to do, this was almost never exercised. Castellans also have two branches: major and minor. The major ones (more important cities) had their own chairs in the Senate, while the minor ones sat in the very back of the gathering, next to the wall on a common bench. I couldn't find the info, by I'm fairly certain that Orsza is the latter. Furthermore, Castellans couldn't become Starostas and hold other Senatorial offices (unless they step down).

In general, Lithuanians serve on the Muscovite and Livonian border, while the Crownlanders serve in Ukraine.

I would also like to use the opportunity to say a few words about the Starostas, since they come up quite often. There are two kinds of them: Starosta grodowy (Town Starosta) and Starosta niegrodowy (Estate Starosta). The town one is the Starosta I've said about before, with administrative duties and law enforcement powers. Whatever income came from the Crown-owned lands and insitutions there were used to pay the Starosta and to keep the local administration running. The Estate Starosta was the classic sinecure found in other countries. Lands and estates, that were given to the holder by the Crown as tenancy. The rewarded noble paid the agreed upon sum in money or in kind, while keeping the rest for himself. Such a Starosta had none of the rights and duties of the regular one, being happy with the title and the hefty pay that came with it.

 

[Rolman]

Do you really want to do this? You're not quite sure. But you're sick of being looked down upon, and what red-blooded Polonian can't respect a jousting man? Stories of old King Henri with a splinter of lance in his eye swirled through your head, though. Nevertheless, you trained at the sport in France and, while not incompetent, you certainly found the chevaliers and gendarmes readier than you. And the manly atmosphere helps you at least pretend to know what you're doing.

You used some family coin to get yourself a set of good plates in a hurry, made by a Milanese expatriate working in his city's famed style. They've got some absolutely beautiful embossing, too: in the sun one can hardly see it on account of the shine, but scenes from the Iliad and floral motifs abound, framed in bronze and brass trim. With the coming of some good armor you feel a protection forming around you, a certain readiness, as the freshly-painted Radziwiłł livery on your shield makes you feel a stirring pride. But that doesn't quiet the sweat-soaked stirring.

A tilt is arranged with a Tęczyński sworn man by the name of Lacza. He's been wandering around talking rot about the pro-Imperial faction for some days now and apparently brought up your name. You sent out a herald with a challenge once the armor was fitted. It's a dangerous match: a Tęczyński man was murdered by your brief acquaintance, Samuel Zborowski — considered a Radziwiłł associate to a degree — just a few days prior. They walk with their honor on the line, embittered and vengeful. "Your Serene Highness, I'll try to not to batter you too badly," he says with a sanguine smile. "For I've heard you're the one as glass-like as your bottles."

There are spectators, as there always are. They hoot at the insult. You must return fire. "My lord, then you have never tussled with a real Lithuanian, clearly! It won't be my wine spilling." You tap your crooked nose. "This wasn't gained in an accident!"

"Ah, well, noses break easily, Your Serene Highness."

"I'm sure I'll be shaking when you come at me, clad in pots and pans, sir." Despite his sinful ways, you channel Sir Marszowski.

"And gold does not buy victory! It's a rather soft metal." But he's good at this.

"Soft, like yourself! But where are your riches?"

You're not sure if you came out on top, but you found yourself consulting with old Marszowski on jousting and verbal sparring alike. You hadn't talked to him for a few days; it's normal since Gosiewski, so he seemed surprised.

"Remember, lord prince: an unhorsing is an instant victory, more points for hits on the head and shield, fewer points for splintering or shattering your lance," he explains.

"Right, I recall that."

"I've never tilted before, though, I'm afraid, so I may not be much help." He shrugs and smiles. "You're young; be strong." He adds: "ehm… And go with God." It almost sounds like a question.

"Thank you, Sir Marszowski, may He keep me."

That was very little help, and van Gistel's a lifelong footman-artillerist. With no French friends in the city, it seems as if you must go in blind. You gulp.

The hour comes. You and Lacza circle the track, hailing the king and lords and ladies in attendance. You make sure to raise your lance extra high, head turned, as you pass a nail-biting Mariana and a cool-faced Marszowski; he just nods and gives a small wave. Was that cold?

But there's no time to think on that. The day is crisp, cold, and cloudless; you looked up and prayed before being suited up an hour ago. You salute Lacza and the time has come. Things feel far away through the slit of your visor, freshly-lowered, and your mind grows one-tracked. The blood whooshes through your ears. A cousin of the sensation during the ambush, perhaps, or maybe you're finally forming some callouses. His plates are actually quite nice (not as nice as yours, of course), and he glitters on the opposing end. And begins to move.

You spur your horse onward and the tunnel vision sets in, the fear doesn't so much dissipate but rather finds itself veiled. You see his shield and his head and the point of his lance.

Your lances barrel into each other perfectly, snapping on each other's points. Your arm jerks back slightly painfully. You let out a dry, breathless laugh of disbelief. Tie game.

A French squire hands you a new one. Time for another. The wind rushes over you once more, the thundering begins anew.

That one looks — crack! You fly backwards and kick up into the stirrups, unbroken lance flying from your hands. The crowd roars. Your back on your horse's, you swing your arms over your head for balance and manage to sit yourself up. Thankfully a hit to the shield; no more headaches, please, you think. Do not look at poor Mariana.

Nonetheless, You're rattled, and you thank God for the few moments' delay of getting your lost lance off the strip and returned to you. Once more.

This time, you feel the depth of your vision, of his charge toward you; your mind burns, you angle your lance up and are realize you're just a bit too low.

It shatters where his breastplate meets his helm and you get to see what he just did to you, holding firm through a glancing hit on your shield, splintering his lance-tip. You notice a faint swaying from Sir Lacza as the next tilt approaches, his glint tilting left and right slightly. You're up in points now, you reckon, but barely.

Something's off with him as you unhorse him with shocking, anticlimactic ease, his lance far off-track. He hits the earth with a rattling thud and takes a while to sit up. He rips off his helmet and jogs toward you. You raise your visor and look down at him.

"Goddamn you, Radziwiłł!" he roars in between coughs. "You little throat-punching bastard."

"Radziwiłł!" you repeat, filling with offense.

He wheezes. "Merely… Knocked my wind out — I'll…"

He seems to notice the booing; you do with him. He swings head about wildly. He shouts to be heard to those nearby: "I'll show you what I can really do, little boy — a duel with Hungarian sabers!" The older man raises a fist. "By Vespers, coward, in the courtyard."

People gasp and a hushed relating of information spreads through the stands. You look for Mariana and Marszowski and van Gistel but cannot see them. The King rises from his seat but a native minister whispers in his ear and he waves: go on.

[] "I refuse for the moment, on account of it being Saint David's Day; it would be a particular sin to kill you, sir."

Good work with adding some flair! While you're sincere, this also is an obvious delaying tactic and would seem mortifyingly cowardly otherwise; good Catholics, of which there are many, will say nothing. It'll still have to happen tomorrow, for Lacza's answer is all but certain and cannot be deferred. You'll at least have some time to train, though, which lowers a whole different kind of risk somewhat.

[] "Very well, sir. I will find satisfaction in having first blood."

The most flamboyant Sarmatians will balk, but honorable enough. You could be wounded, though, obviously.

[] You don't truly want to say it, but: "to the death, then, cur."

Let every man see what you're capable of! Quiet them all. You could be wounded or worse.

 

[Sertorius]

"Goddamn you, Radziwiłł!" he roars in between coughs. "You little throat-punching bastard."

"Radziwiłł!" you repeat, filling with offense.

Click to shrink...

To call a Prince (or indeed any noble with influence) by his last name so blatantly was an offense. No wonder our hero is angry.

He seems to notice the booing; you do with him. He swings head about wildly. He shouts to be heard to those nearby: "I'll show you what I can really do, little boy — a duel with Hungarian sabers!" The older man raises a fist. "By Vespers, coward, in the courtyard."

People gasp and a hushed relating of information spreads through the stands. You look for Mariana and Marszowski and van Gistel but cannot see them. The King rises from his seat but a native minister whispers in his ear and he waves: go on.

Click to shrink...

Duels were forbidden by law (a fine and 6 months of prison time for the very act of a challenge or accepting it), however the King had the exclusive right to allow them. Truth be told, there is only one historical example of a monarch using this privilege. Mostly because nobody ever asked him for permission and did the thing unofficially. Besides the King, the Great Crown Marshal also had to agree, since he was the man responsible for the protection of the Court and it was he, who mercilessly punished any idiot, that shed blood near the King, as said before. An unofficial duel near the Court is a death sentence.

The monarch usually stipulated some rules, like time to prepare, weapons, etc. However, duels to the death were prohibited at all times and killing the opponent in a fight was treated as murder, thus our head will roll, since it would have been done near the King. The best part? Lithuanian law was very severe and had the death penalty for the very act of dueling, although it was not executed.

 

[Rolman]

His Majesty issued a statement regarding the spectacle a few hours after:

We, the King, informed by our own good conscience as much as by the laws and traditions of this august Polish Crown, have found it fit that the contest of honor so announced in our presence on the Day of Saint David shall proceed unimpeded upon the conditions that follow: that the contest shall take place during daylight on the Second of March, Anno Domini 1574; that the contest shall be conducted with Hungarian sabers; that the contest shall take place beyond the walls of the Capital; that the contest shall take place no nearer than five Polish miles from the Royal Person; that the contest in no way invoke or involve ourselves or our powers beyond that which is conveyed herein. We neither endorse nor move to penalize the interested parties, Sir Jan Lacza and His Serene Highness the Imperial Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł; God will choose His victor, but such is our will. Decreed on this Saint David's Day, the First of March, Anno Domini 1574.

Someone must've told him to keep his hands off. But there's no stipulation of first blood or second or death, the bastard.

You let Mariana hold your hands. "Stanisław, I'd hate to see your hurt or…" She can't seem to say it. "It'd be too soon."

"I know," you say. "May the Lord keep me a bit longer. That's all I can hope for."

She chuckles nervously. "I hope you've still been practicing."

"Of course," you smile, willing to give her hands a squeeze. "I've already beat him once, anyway."

"What's it even to him?"

"I think he thinks he's been bested by the weakest Radziwiłł," you say. "With His help — and his help — may I prove everybody wrong today."

"God willing, husband."

"God willing."

"I'll be praying for you. I can't watch."

"Thank you, Mariana," you say, releasing her hands to go. "You're a good wife." For some reason, despite the distance, despite the stain of Eve, despite the time, you nearly say something starting with L. Odd.

She smiles. May it not be the last time you see it on this Earth.

You arrive at the appointed place and time and there's already a crowd assembled — more than a few are interested to see the so-called mild-mannered youngest of Rudy's boys handle a dust-up. The urge to prove yourself almost overcomes the nerves, to join the pantheon of fearless, battle-ready Radziwiłłowie.

It's just after dawn, the winter sun peeking over the horizon, breath lingering misty in the air. Marszowski is your second. He hands you a gleaming, well-sharpened szabla. You and Lacza alike wear your thickest furs in a bid for some protection.

Lacza swishes his blade through the air. "Hope you're ready, little prince."

"Oh, shut up," is all you say. The crowd chuckles at your dryness, but you really just can't focus on trading insults right now. The familiar feeling descends. You can indeed look him in the eye, you notice. You've unhorsed him; you reckon you can take him on foot, too. And this is something you've truly practiced for years. Praise God for Andrzej Marszowski, may he come to Jesus.

Despite your boast about killing, it seems as if this contest falls in a midpoint, all unspoken: death too great a punishment, first blood offering no satisfaction. Someone will have to yield. The presence of a priest lends attention to the fact that a surrender could come involuntarily.

You look him up and down, really take him in: your height, about ten or fifteen years older and a little portly, yet clearly strong. A classic hussar's mustache on his tough face. You don't see any scars — equally likely to be an endorsement or indictment. None of your men have heard of this obscure fellow, and your nascent sense of honor shudders at the thought of being wounded or killed by someone little better than a noble footman.

Neck and head, wrists and hands, anywhere below the thigh. These are the targets, almost glinting like metal in your mind's eye.

You've been praying all night on this in between training for it, to be a miles Christi and to be under His aegis even though a duel is, by definition, founded upon the sin of pride. A swelling in your ribcage brings you some peace, a sense of a caring eye looking down upon you. May He truly be there.

Marszowski and van Gistel pat your back, help you stretch, and give last-minute advice. "It's one thing to spar," says the former, "the real thing is a lot more about getting not hit. Remember the rhythm. It's like dancing."

Just remember the night's practice with Marszowski. Cut-guard-cut, cut-dodge-guard. No, this is not sparring at all. You're stripped down into your fighting self, the same self as yesterday, the same as how you were at the village. You stretch its skin over yours, swallow with difficulty the animal feeling, the singing muscles, the distant sound, the thudding heart.

You and Lacza drop into high squats, on your guards. He seems to expect a slash, holding his saber parallel to himself, its thin blade almost reaching back to touch his shoulder.

Oh, Hell, what to do? He smiles. "Come now," he says.

You try an overhand chop, top-left to bottom-right — easily blocked — and you manage to whip your blade down across yourself diagonally to meet his low counter-strike with a moment to spare. You try again at an overhand and the dance begins to build as you feverishly block Lacza's swings. You keep your offhand bolted to your hip, even as every instinct calls for you to raise it.

You try for another overhand, this time having the presence of mind to make it a moulinet; he flinches, darting back by the shoulders, but still makes the block. You parry his returns.

You're both still breathing through your noses as circling begins anew, guards changing in a game of mirroring, high meeting low, back to low and high and to the middle again. You start beating on each other's blades, the bout going nowhere, forehands and backhands doing nothing. You think he's sizing you up and you stare each other down in between flurries.

He leaps forward — a balestra! It's having its intended effect as your blade mirrors his imperfectly and he moves in with a lunging moulinet.

Away! Your body jerks of its own accord to make a quarter-turn and you grunt as his blade slaps harmlessly off the thickest part of your cloak — it'd have gone through your collarbone otherwise. He closes distance as you swing yourself back around; a low slash is the only thing to stop him, making him leap away with an "ah!"

Barely missed. You work for follow-through and bash at him on his left, low to high to low to high. One great swing of your saber sends the dull end of his flying into the slope of the side of his head, opening a cut. "I'm not done yet!" he exclaims.

You're losing it! What you did just now was get lucky; you realize you're forgetting your training and are swinging wild. You back up with a guard held, to the point that the crowd gives you a gentle shove back into the ring. Defensive posture. You reckon he's the better swordsman — certainly the more confident one — and you want to let him make mistakes.

"Scared?" he asks, beginning to slice at your shoulders again.

You don't answer and focus on blocking. You notice sweat beading beside the trickle of blood from his forehead. You dimly note his paunch again. You try to withstand him steadfastly.

Your moment comes when he cocks his arm back just a pinch too far; you make a move for his off-hand with a quick cut. You'll have to hope it interrupts his own strike.

You connect and see a flash of wrist-bone for the briefest of moments, your fear-slowed vision taking in the wound yawning.

Lacza roars and swears, jumping back as his slash cuts air, shaking his hand and flicking blood about. "Bastard!" he grimaces and laughs. "Can't even pick the right hand!"

But you see it in him again, what you realize you saw when you first put in a good hit on him during yesterday's tilt. That mingling of a rattled body with an arrogant mind. Now he's the one swinging wild. A mere flick of the wrist from a high guard sweeps your blade across his corresponding cheek. More blood on his face. He doesn't react.

Dammit! You feel a shock of cold before a burn of heat as he shears your forearm in a counter. One can only withstand constant attack for so long. You overextended just a bit when you nipped his face; he got you with the tip of his saber in the eyeblink it'd take to retract your slashing arm. Your tunic reddens on its sleeve with a decent bit of fabric ripped up. The pain is tolerable, and the fact you can still grip your sword means it can't be anything too serious. "It's nothing!" you hear yourself say.

You realize you both have been playing a high-cut game, focusing on swipes delivered and aimed for the ribs up. Meanwhile, Lacza's emboldened by his hit, and works at you harder than ever.

Your eyes lock on to his sword arm. A duck and a low-high cut could get him as he swings an overhand, knock the sword away and take some hand with it. You start feinting and blocking as you shuffle backwards; he laughs and you realize he must think you're losing your nerve.

Let him. You keep it at it, squatting low. He tires of the game and begins to strike and you lean in and take your chance, giving him a wide target to crash down on as you swipe upward at his sword-arm.

It connects! Something hits the side of your head but you're too fixated on the fact that you've absolutely hacked into his forearm, on the underside below the elbow. His blade slides harmlessly down you as he releases the weapon and screams. You involuntarily drop your weapon at the shout; it holds in the wound for a split-second before hitting the half-frozen ground with a thud. Blood pours out after it.Lacza bends down at his own blade, trying and failing to properly grip it with his injured other hand. He lets out a cry of frustration and claps the maimed hand over the arm-wound to little effect, cursing and hissing with pain all the while.

You lower your saber and watch. You've done it. You stare straight ahead. Victory.

He turns his back to you and heads toward his bit-chomping supporters on the sidelines, who rush out to meet him.

"Do you yield?" you call out.

"Sure!" he says over his shoulder. Heh. The crowd laughs before they roar, shouting compliments to victor and vanquished alike. You must've given them a good show. As the tunnel vision recedes, you notice money changing hands.

Marszowski and van Gistel nearly tackle you from behind, ripping your cap off. You turn around with a half-sheepish smile and realize that they're checking your head, rather than mobbing you in celebration. They look relieved.

Van Gistel smiles and searches the ground. He points. "Look, Your Serene Highness," he exclaims, "it's His Serene Highness!"

Namely, the top of your left ear. As your heartbeat slows and your breathing steadies, you realize you can feel the cooling blood on your arm, on the side of your head. You feel around and wince at a cut above your halved ear. "That was close," says Marszowski.

"Very. Got lucky," you reply.

"You better not mean in swordsmanship! You were the wolf to his bear, perfect fundamentals! Creative, too." He claps his hand on your shoulder and you forget the immoral life he leads.

"Thank you, chevalier." You look to van Gistel.

He shrugs and gives a front-toothless smile. "I only know the rapier. And stabbing bastards on the ground," he adds dryly. "But it looked very good indeed, Your Serene Highness!"

"And thank you, van Gistel." You keep poking around your head wound and your hand comes back very bloody. "Oh, poor Mariana."

"Lady Sapieha is a tough one," laughs Marszowski. "She'll live."

Maybe, not quite, it's hard to tell. She pokes around your bandages, touching the back of your hand and your wrist gently, stroking the side of your head. Her eyes are screaming but she musters up a smile. "At least you won?"

"Eh, God gave me the day. Surgeon says they're merely flesh wounds. Shame about my ear, though." You don't know and don't want to know the fate of Lacza.

"It was such a pretty ear," she says, putting on a wistful tone. You snort. "I really do mean it."

"Thank you, Mariana." There's an iron rod where your spine should be all of a sudden.

You've forgotten how to do this. Tenderness. Maybe you never knew how. Flashes at the foot of the marriage-bed, speaking in tongues and calmed by her hand. Is this something you can go to God for? "I didn't really feel anything this time around," you say. "Besides feeling like I needed to get the job done."

"You weren't scared?"

"Of course I was scared." You twist your face around like you're swishing water, searching for words. "I just wasn't thinking about how scared I was."

"Well… Do you feel bad for him? For what you did?"

[] "The entire thing's one big sin of pride."

[] "He had it coming. He got what he asked for."

[] "I wish it never came to it, I suppose."

[] "I just hope I earn some respect for this."

[] "Again, I don't really feel anything at all."

 

[Rolman]

"I wish it never came to it, I suppose."

"Because you don't like hurting people?" asks Mariana.

"Nobody else seems to mind. It's arrogant and brazen and offends God and nature. It's sick, is what it is."

"Well," she says, "God and nature permit such things every day. Cain and Abel, wolves and sheep." You blink at her. "Something can be expected, true, normal — without it being alright."

You give a little huff yet feel some gratitude for some reason. "Ah, well, that humanistic stuff…" you wave it away. "The Christ is Christ because of his mercy and compassion. By G— it's right there in the Commandments!"

"Yes, but," she says, looking thoughtful. "When I was a little girl I thought that, too, especially because I'd always see angels at that age. I thought: 'how could they?' But it's simply the stain of Sin."

You sigh. "I guess I have trouble accepting that."

"It hurts to watch, I know. Can I ask you something, husband?"

"Yes?"

"Why is it that the things that bring us pleasure send us to Hell, do you think? Dancing, drinking, feasting, pleasing the flesh."

You've talked about this a good deal with Friar Gosiewski. "Because they're distractions above all. The Book has much to say about their sinfulness, yes, but in my mind: they're distractions."

"Go on..."

"The reason things got so bad was the wine. How I threw up all over the pheasant in front of those Swedes," you say. It's only embarrassing if you let it be.

"Yes. That's when you started to… grow serious."

"I mean, it was mortifying. But it taught me — showed me — that I had forgotten the greatest gift ever given to mankind, a mercy so unimaginable…" you nearly get emotional. "On that I can and will subsist."

Mariana looks a little tentative; she says it anyway. "But are you happy?"

Happy. Happy. Are you happy? Are you happy? "I'm not quite sure. But I feel peace and that'll bring it in its due time." You quote the Friar: "happiness and piety are sisters, not twins."

"A few years ago, back when I was a proper virgo, I thought I wanted to become a nun. I just started having my first flowers." She contorts her face. "Oh-h-h-h the pain was terrible, but then these fell moods began to take over me. Pain or no pain, I just didn't want to rise. I felt like a stone and I'd cry at anything."

"Sounds like melancholia."

What? What's that look on her face? "Mhm," she continues, straining for memories yet speaking as an orator. "and there was a convent around wherever we were staying at the time – we weren't at Kodeń – oh, the nuns." She beams. "Peaceful, peaceful women, in their black habits all embroidered with holy images. Father let me spend time with them."

"They're special women," you agree. "Married to Christ."

Mariana nods. "And I began to hate my fine things, my dresses and my fur hats and cloaks, knowing that I'd be married to some man ten years older. This life is a bit of a prison, you know."

"Finally someone–"

"But one cannot defeat excess with… With deprivation. Stanisław, you mortify your body like you're bound for the Pit tomorrow!"

"Don't speak lightly of Hell!"

She puckers. You've never seen her like this. "Oh, yes, and you, the blue-wearing oblate, tilting and getting into duels like you're Sir Marszowski, who you hate all of a sudden!" She extends her arms out at her sides. "You weren't thinking on your sins then, were you, all clouded up by – you only ever cared about getting better when you embarrassed yourself in front of everyone!" she spits it out and wipes her eyes. "Have you ever done anything for yourself ever?"

"This, Mariana," you growl. "I am giving myself this. I am giving myself control and discipline and clear eyes and a little spiderweb-thin line to God for once in my life. I am at peace for once." You pinch your nose. "Why do you talk to your husband this way?"

"Because I cannot stand to see him suffer," she says with a sniff. "As a wife I cannot abide by it. I know I'm being out of line." The two of you exhale in unison. "The night we met, when we danced – were you thinking of Paris then?"

You can't answer that, you don't want to. She's winning.

"Did I not bring you back into your senses on our wedding night?" she asks

"What are you implying, Mariana?" You can't bring yourself to unball your fists just yet.

"You are being ruled over, Stanisław," she says with a conviction never-seen. "Not by Saint Benedict's Rule, not by God, but by a man – and what that man is telling you to do."

Have you really just been taking orders? Again? You swallow. "No…"

"The writings of the Saints aren't infallible, anyway, you know. Didn't you say you argued against Aquinas at university?"

Oh, that. "I didn't know what I was doing back then," you say, waving at the air to make it go away. "It was very sinful in retrospect."

"Says who?" Mariana snaps, "the Bible? God? The Lord does not test anybody more than He wants to. Why test yourself? What'll satisfy you? You've killed men, won a joust, won a duel! And you're in bandages for it all." She sighs.

Is she being hysterical? No. It's undeniable. She's making some points, she's shaking you.

"I haven't seen much of the world," she says. "But I've seen enough and read enough to know that there are men who rule through hatred – you should know that – that there are men who rule through despair and fear and making a man hate himself."

You don't know what to say.

"And life should be anything, anything, everything but living under that. Under the thumb of such people."

"You dishonor God and the Saints, Mariana." Why must you feel like shaking?

"Think on it. Please, think on it."

You must.