Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

The campaign begins, quiet and cold despite the days brightening and warming still. If it may even be called a campaign, that is. There is no triumphant departure from Orsza, no lines of adventurers and miscreants at muster stations, no drums or trumpets or banners held high.

No, only the smokestacks of campgrounds and burning hamlets, the ubiquitous dustclouds from hundreds of horses being led to water. You couldn't stay at the Castle, not with Marszowski and van Gistel in the field, and not when villages are razed because of your deeds. However partial your overall responsibility may be, the burning drive of guilt, as ever, throws you from your seat, back out into the dangerous outside.

It's more of a saber duel than a chess game. The guard flies north to defend, only to face a test to the south, as the next strike comes somewhere in-between. No matter how many Muscovites are cut down, shot off their horses, or strung up from the hanging trees, the raids continue in flurries of jabs. Little parties of men — a few dozen at most — composed of disheveled riders led by petty nobles in chainmail. Usually they couldn't be apprehended until cattle were already killed out of spite, until shepherds and peddlers went missing, until roofs were burned.

The Lipkas do good work. They look like Zaporozhians from afar (any peasant on a horse does somewhat), but they trade their half-shaved heads and drooping mustaches for big black beards, telling long anecdotes and Mohamatan parables in Lithuanian and their inherited mother tongue around their campfire. Their arrows very frequently strike true, their nimble horses able to catch Muscovites and cut them down from the saddle should their quivers empty.

Music. Outside your tent. What to make of music these days, that thing that so invites frivolity and Sin? Camp life brings a cacophony: chickens and goats bock and bleat as the horses ceaselessly make their presence known, yet through the chaos you may always hear a flute, a Polish drinking song in one direction, a Ruthenian gusli in the other.

And, five times a day, without fail, one song drowns out the rest, performed with as much dedication as you sing psalms for the Hours. It is an invocation of Baphomet, the siren-song of a false prophet, and one of the most beautiful things you've ever heard. Every elongated word of the Lipkas' call to prayer leaves you waiting for it to end so you may drink up the next one, vibrating on the wind in a foreign tongue straight out of a dream. A song, says their leader Amurat, of complete and utter submission to the God they claim to be the same as yours. "Prayer is better than sleep," he haltingly translates. And there is an undeniable beauty to watch some three-hundred hardened men, killers all, prostrate themselves in faithful unison. If only such piety could emanate from Christian hearts instead.

But never mind that. Perhaps it will be good to rest and meditate when things quiet down. Maybe even indulge in a dance, though you shake your head in a bid to make that thought go away. If not for God, then for the leading of men, your duty, your earthly calling since birth. Your baptism and name days pass without fanfare. The scenes of rural destruction, while feeling increasingly, disturbingly, weightless, nevertheless threw you back into your days at the flying court in France, surveying the wild-eyed anarchy of an uprooted society. The bands of half-feral orphans, farmer-robbers at every turn, the famished leaving forests without birdsong, oaks without acorns, turned earth without worms. While nowhere near as bad out here, the same gnawing that gripped you in your adolescence began to take hold: a looming fear that only men may fix such things, fix themselves – and it shall be found in law and ancient nobility and the Holy Church, not in a monastery. May the Saints be ever-praised, of course.

Things grow more frustrating as the days roll by. You see very little battle yourself, for the Tatars and Zaporozhians tend to sail into the fray with many minutes' of a headstart compared to your bulky personal guard. Some hussar's plates would come in handy, not this Milanese finery. You watch the puddles collect summer rain, the men and peasants bury bodies. You thought there'd be more commanding to do. The numbers of the cavalry are slowly chipped away. A man killed here, another lost to the bloody flux — it adds up over the month.

The pattern cannot hang on forever. At least, not at this rate; Lord Kmita agrees. And that means something out here in his country.

You possess around 475 foot and around 400 horse. Your personal guard number around fifty. Around hundred men (or their horses) have been lost among the cavalry, while the infantry have lost a couple dozen to illness and accidents.

This does not include about 300 Lipka Tatars, who have sustained only token losses: semi-assimilated Lithuanian horse archers serving as mercenaries and/or glory seekers. Skilled in their craft.

Enemy forces must be in the high hundreds, scattered up and down your section of the border. They come ten at time, twenty at a time, and no amount of killing stops them.

The personal guard is of very high quality, well-armed with gunpowder and melee weapons of all shapes and sizes. They are armored in both Western-style and hussar's plate, and can fight as infantry or cavalry.

The quality of the infantry is low-average: peasant militia and starostwo guardsmen, armed polearms, bows, various axes and bludgeons, and a smattering of outdated matchlocks. However, they are well-accustomed to raiding season and should not be mistakenly thought of as unmotivated or fresh-from-the-plow.

The quality of the cavalry is above-average. The experience of the local lordlings and Kmita's Zaporozhians make up for their lack of meaningful armor and overreliance on the saber.

You have a cannon or two at Orsza Castle. Powder and a handful of stone cannonballs; the crews are irreplaceable.

Morale is high. Discipline is high relative to troop quality. Supplies are abundant and easily refilled.

Finances are diminished yet stable; there's no need to dip into the tax-purse unless to make a major expense.

[] Hire replacements and continue the defense.

This is the way that's worked for years, and it *is* working. It's just that it's storms this year rather than rain, so to speak, and so the levees will need reinforcing. No need to take unnecessary risks.

[] Try to bait a large force into attacking.

Lord Kmita will plant information of an upcoming military payroll convoy bound for Witebsk. You'll use a considerable amount of your own silver to confirm rumors and maintain believability. Then, the ambushers need to merely be ambushed themselves.

[] Sally over the border and attempt to force a pitched battle – bring the cannons.

The policy of merely repelling attacks is failing; the time has come to take the fight to the barbarians. Although liable to cause a diplomatic incident, assaulting a well-known raider wagon-park on their side of the border could be a fine way to quiet them for the rest of the year. However, there are likely troops of real quality that you'll have to tangle with, sworn to and led by the boyars responsible for their black work. The cannons will slow down your party by a day's travel or more, though it's a good time of year to transport them.

[] Sally over the border and attempt to force a pitched battle – no cannons.

Travel lighter! This ought to be in-and-out. Plus, they're technically not your property and are quite expensive.

[] Ride North to meet with Voivode Pac.

It's one thing to manage a normal raiding season, but even unflappable Kmita says this is a lot. The time for self-delegation is over: we need help, we need coordination, and the Royal troops and provincial purse at Witebsk -- however stretched thin they may be-- will prove invaluable. In the meantime, proceed with the defense as usual.

[] write-in. Tweet length.

 

[Rolman]

It was nearly the summer when you last killed a man. Beautiful weather, like this year, even if the sun is a cooler one. Damn this waiting. Yes, that's right, curse it, even if it be Sin — it's one of the more lesser ones coming your way, you reckon. Kmita is sure they'll bite, saying that they broke their largest camp a few days ago.

That heightened state you find yourself in, awful yet exhilarating and cuttingly familiar, gives the bucolic scenes through which the "payroll convoy" passes an odd glaze of fear. Swaying fields of grain, scarecrows watching over, feel as if they contain human wolves. The verdant woods of beech and birch and aspen are rendered looming thickets, brimming with the unknown.

In orderly quiet does the convoy move forward, hands gripping weapons as the men duck below canvas covers, trying to keep hidden. All in all, the wagon train cuts a somewhat imposing sight — stretching nearly a tenth of a mile and hosting over a hundred and fifty men with riders abreast — but you hope that the alleged prize of Orsza's fine silver will smell sweet enough.

And the days pass. You're starting to lose hope; there isn't an inkling of a Muscovite by the time you're halfway to Witebsk. The messenger-riders, catching up to the convoy breathless as if bearing news of great import, bring anything but. "That's odd to have no news," says Lord Kmita, "makes me think they're gearing up."

van Gistel concurs: "We'd have to ease up on ambushes were we planning something serious back in the homeland." Marszowski just shrugs as if to say: let come what may.

A storm's rolling in. The birches sway and leaves fall like a snail-slow rain. Cold wind blows from the direction of grey-black clouds. The undergrowth feels alive.

Where's the bridge? "Check your wheels and shot!" it's an order you didn't give out, but you agree with whoever said it. They've been waiting and waiting for this. The mounted men wheel around on their horses, unholstering carbines, looking for anything.

There's no bridge; there should be a bridge. Everybody's ready for something. Only divots in the earth where the bridge should be — not even any debris in the brook.

Where are the birds? The wind rushes through the trees.

You wait. You wait some more. The first drops of rain begin to fall. And they never come.

The Muscovites, that is. By the time the rain is truly falling the powder-bags are desperately concealed under canvas, and the men are on the brink of shaking as they hide in the wagon-beds. After hours, more and more of you feel willing to leave cover. They step out from within wagons tentatively and tensely, ready to die. Nothing comes; no arrows fly, no muskets boom.

It'll be dark soon. You conference with Kmita, Marszowski, and van Gistel.

[] "We ought to try and build ourselves a bridge and fast. I don't like this forest."

You've got no real engineers among you, but how hard can this be? It's just a little brook. There are carpenters among the peasant infantry who can break down a couple of the wagons into something usable. Combine that with some handy ditch-digging to drain the little stream, heap up some earth, and hopefully nothing worse than a broken axle will arise from this.

[] "We should try and back out and set up a tabor while we still can."

The horses will have to be unhitched and the wagons rotated to face the other direction by hand. Will eat up time — and that's before forming a tabor.

[] "If they're waiting for nightfall, let's give it to them. Defend from our wagons."

You envision a column of little bastions, brimming with halberd-points and carbine barrels. Of course, while defensible, you forfeit effectively all maneuver capabilities.

[] "Damn the silver — let's find them." (bring everybody)

They must be baiting us, or waiting for us to start trying to leave. They may be at the edge of the forest, waiting. There's only one way to find out.

[] "My lords, I think the time has come to find them." (dispatch scouts)

Hold positions, put out feelers.

 

[Rolman]

The sky's turning the color of a sick man's gums. The day is near-dead. The waiting has, shockingly to some extent, emboldened you; your fears melted away rather than escalate and escalate. All you feel now is a grim calmness, a desire to make it through the dusk and night in one piece, with as many men alive as possible, and with your honor intact. You know this upcoming Confession to be a difficult one already, but hope that you're at last gaining some nerves. You'll need them to lead.

You sigh. Kmita, Marszowski, and van Gistel squat in a wagon before you.

"Alright, we've got to do something," you say. "Forget the silver. If we win, we get it back." They agree. "They're probably banking on inaction." Power. Declare it. You're not used to it, but you can't help but commit the sin of pride. God has decreed by birth itself that you are to lead. This may well be war, and I am a prince.

"Which we've been giving them, Your Serene Highness," says Marszowski, a little fire in him. "We ought to find them and put them down."

"Sir Marszowski," Kmita throws a cautionary hand up. "They're all mounted. Uphill battle, sir." He looks back down the road, at the snorting horses and wagons increasingly turning to shaded silhouettes. "Goddamn it. It'll be Hell to try and turn around and form a tabor. Unhitch each wagon one by one, turn them by hand..."

You itch at the blaspheming, but he's right. You place a hand to your temple. "We have a good deal of mobile troops, too, of course. Terrible to lead them through this brush."

"Then we let the foot do it?" asks van Gistel.

"The scrub's not that bad, and we're burning daylight. My riders are more than suited, sirs," says Kmita strongly.

"I defer to the Zaporozhians," you manage to chuckle. "Lithuania's plenty forested," you say with a nod to van Gistel. "Let your men lead the way, Lord Kmita."

You want to be the one to find the bastards. "And let me accompany you."

"Gladly, Your Serene Highness," he nods.

"Van Gistel, you'll lead the foot," you say. He gives a toothless smile, eager. "Take the rearmost wagons and turn them about – move back out into the fields and form a tabor. Dump the silver. We can't be too safe."

"Very good, Your Serene Highness." He can't stop his grinning. A command again at last.

You look at the three of them. "Any objections, sirs?" They shake their heads. "A force of such size can't hide for long."

This isn't the tallest forest in the land, but it certainly doesn't feel that way. Ribbons of now-blood red sky loom overhead, sliced into strips by trunks and branches. The forest watches a scattered group of a few dozen mounted men, fresh-lit torches in hand, wade into its midst.

The crunching of hooves keeps you on edge. The sound of your side moving could easily drown out the enemy doing the same. The frogs peep and the crickets chirp and the air is cool. A summer night. It grows darker and darker.

Thumps of gunfire! To the left, and to the rear; they make men flinch and the horses' ears twitch. And a screaming din begins to rise, the pounding booms increase and amplify. They've found each other. Or, worse yet, the Muscovites were simply waiting at the trailhead.

"Turn about! Turn about! Move at speed!" you bellow. Everyone rides hurriedly in the direction of the clamor.

"Lord prince, look out!"

A pair of horses, spittle flying, are barreling at you, nearly flying as they run. You notice that they're without riders, and – move it!

You spur Sztylet hard and, already in motion, he quickly gets you out of the way. It's only then that you realize they're yoked to a wagon. Other men maneuver out of the spectacle as the wagon fishtails into a tree and shatters. The horses run deep into the wood, still hitched together across their backs.

You turn your head back toward the road. The sound is a bad one. It's not the sound of spirited combat. It's a collective scream. Sparks and flashes fly out of wagon-beds, ghostly-looking, crouching figures with swords and halberds chop at swarms of shadowy riders. One wagon's been overcome, where the trail turns to open sky. Muscovite lances, the ends of their shafts silhouetted against the dim, plunged down into the little fortress' bed.

There are men on foot running toward you, into the lightest part of the forest. They're being pursued and cut down with speed.

You're on fire. You want to kill, you want to die. After all, you did this. Now avenge it.

[] "Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"

Move. Move. Move.

[] "Up the road, now! We'll curve around to attack from behind! Fire at will! Kill any man on a horse that's not ours!"

Hunters to hunted. Sow chaos in their ranks.

[] Breathe. "Advance at speed toward the road and halt at the treeline; begin to skirmish."

Beestings of arrows and lead. A deadly distraction.

[] write-in. Not too long please.

 

[Rolman]

"Charge! Bóg nam radzi! Cut them to pieces!"

Kill them. Save the men. Save your honor. Let them hear of a victory. You feel every possible emotion, but you are more angry than afraid.

Saint Michael, guide me. Mother Maria, guard me.

You spur Sztylet hard and your riders raise a confident cry. You can hear the Tatars loosing their arrows, watching the fletched needles sail through the dusk-shrouded air. Shadowy figures fall as the wave of muscle and steel moves forward, arrows treacherously flying past from behind and beside. Thank the Lord you're all in at least breastplates and helms. But it shall just be us — the men of Dubinki Castle. The brave men of Orsza are too busy being slaughtered.

It's a treacherous sprint, and the Lipkas peel off to put their skills to use from the treeline. The massacre at the forest's edge blurs as you focus on divots and trunks coming at you, Sztylet weaving and hopping, slowing down the charge.

Pistols and carbines boom all about, the rising acrid smell — they're right on top of you! Men lay like stones in the moss and brambles behind them. They've turned their routing pursuit into a counter-charge, moving into the forest to meet you. Your stomach drops as your eyes calculate that a man is flying at you, lance couched under his arm.

Everything slows down. Your carbine! It's still in its holster, fool! You struggle to draw it. Every strap feels like a gripping hand, every little bit of leather it catches on a terrible snag. chik-BOOM! You see him fold over through the gunsmoke and— move-move-move! Sztylet wheels his hind end around to dodge the horse over which your foeman is draped. The dying man somehow sounds like an angry cat through your ringing ears. You spur Sztylet onwards and exhale.

The road's turned to chaos or, at least, you're able to properly behold it now. Wagons are positioned at various angles, one flipped, riderless horses sprinting and bucking and jumping, dismounted men grappling in the dust and tripping over corpses.

Your charge slows to a mere walk as you wade into the mess with your saber over your head. Looking down from Sztylet, it seems like the earth itself, all around you, has turned to dead men, dying men, fighting men. Riders are picked off from their horses by shot and arrow and you pray the Tatars are choosing the right targets.

You numbly pick a Muscovite — a distracted rider with a lance, stabbing into a silenced wagon-bed — and your horse shimmies its way over to him.

You feel like murder, and that's what you do: his back is turned to you as you start to chop at his skull, his shoulderblades. Totally defenseless, by the time his horse turns around he's sliding out of his stirrups with a gurgle. Another slash across the neck sends blood spraying across your face. You taste the man's death.

"Holy Mother!" It comes out involuntarily. That one felt not so good, not so necessary. You think you even saw his face, a stunned expression on it. You spit desperately, wiping at your face as quickly as you can. "Christ, oh, Savior's bones…"

Breathe in, breathe out. You look around, and see men on foot darting into the woods. Is the rout continuing?

"YOUR PRINCE IS WITH YOU!" you bellow with all your might. "STAND AND FIGHT!"

Through the din, voices cry out: "Bóg nam radzi!"

And a few more. And a few more. The locals, getting the idea, join in with something similar-sounding. You can't tell who's winning, but you swell with hope at the sound. You pray that the Muscovites have, themselves, been ambushed.

The great jostle of groaning men and screaming horses increasingly smells like metal through the sulfur and sweat. The air's humid yet dry from smoke. Keep trying to breathe.

Focus. Focus. You smell blood and sulfur — again, that is — and that's what Hell probably smells like. You see Hell. You hear your ears ringing, and the booms which make them ring further. But through that shriek you realize there are several voices, making a similar effort to project as you did, shouting in Muscovite.

Commanders. Let's find some.

You lose yourself to listen. A necessary danger. Your ears allow you to spot a peaked steel helm atop a rider on the outskirts of the melee, close to the open sky of the trailhead emptying into fields. That must've been where they came from. And where the Tatars didn't go, seemingly; this man is too far away to be anybody friendly.

You look for Marszowski and (think you) see him a sea of tangled men away, atop his horse gripping a Muscovite's lance, hacking off its spearhead like a peasant with a hatchet. He's clearly busy. God keep him. And who knows what of van Gistel.

You don't know what's gotten into you, but you somehow manage to weave through the melee, spurring Sztylet for a charge against this nobleman foolish enough to leave himself unguarded. But, then again, what exactly is it that you're doing right now? You would kill for a lance. Or a brace of pistols.

You scream at the man as you barrel towards him, who starts rifling around on the side of his horse you can't see. A gun?

A bow! You yank Sztylet's reins hard to the right as the boyar deliberately, mechanically, nocks an arrow.

He draws and a moment passes and you cannot breathe. There's a great pain in your lungs. It hit with a metallic crack. You look down. A broken arrow rests in your lap. A deep dent in your Milanese breastplate, warping some embossed scene of Hector or Achilles. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God. It could've been much worse from a Tatar-style bow like that.

You cannot breathe. Burning in your lungs, aching in your chest. Look up!

The man is right in front of you, looking slightly shocked. It's a near-collision; his horse skitters back as Sztylet rears up. You just barely manage to stay in the saddle.

By the time you come back down, he's producing a saber and willing his horse to advance back toward you.

You begin to cross blades. He's decent, but you think you can get him. The Muscovite style is more conservative, it seems. And so you attack, fast and strong, beating on his blade, threatening his stirruped leg to lower his guard. Fighting in the saddle is a difficult thing, almost as if two men are trying to do battle in adjacent rowboats. Without footwork, it becomes a game of leaning in and darting out, sliding forwards and ducking backwards atop one's steed.

You catch him on the wrist and his sword flies from his hand with a yelp. You begin to hack at his upper half as you did your last victim, and it takes a moment to exit the blood-haze and realize he's in a mail shirt. And reaching for a hatchet strapped to his saddle. You chop at his bad hand again and it hangs limply, a mess of blood and pink flesh. You caught him when he was desperate.

"Enough! Enough!" he screams in half-garbled Polish. "I fight no more!"

His wrist is bleeding badly, almost pouring down his leg and the side of his horse. His hand is clamped over it to little aid, and he says something despondent-sounding in his mother tongue. Says something about the Lord.

You swallow. You look him in the eye. He's young. Handsome, blue-eyed, you think – it's getting darker and darker. He's a bargaining chip. He's a child of God. He's a nobleman from the other side of the border. He's better to have alive. Maybe.

"Off your horse," you say.

"What?"

"Dismount. Don't waste time. Pick up that stick," you point at a good-looking one. You hold your sword-tip on him as he climbs down from the saddle using his good hand. Darting your head back into the melee periodically, you talk him through something van Gistel taught you how to do, something surgeons call a tornus. The legionaries used it, too, you think, looking down at the tunic-tail you sacrificed to make into a bandage. Like Saint Martin.

What are you doing?! This may have been but a moment, but your men are killing and dying over there. Halt the guilt, halt it – this is one of their leaders. You put your saber aside and unholster your carbine, pointing it at the now-sitting boyar, his bleeding staunched. Bluff. You never reloaded. But you need to get back into the fray.

You must take a risk. You look at the melee, then back to him, then back to the melee. He can't make it far with one arm. You grimace as you strike down his horse with savage hacks from your saber, probably dulling the blade on its neckbones. If it weren't for your rattled ears, you reckon you'd be able to hear the blood.

No time to ruminate. You ride back into the mix without looking back. More and more of the riders seem to be your own, yelling out the family slogan as they strike down dismounted foes and their dwindling supply of horsemen. Your horse knocks a shaggy Muscovite footman, war ax in hand, down into the dirt. You stoop over and slice him across the face. You can see his teeth through his cheek as he starts to groan; you let out a choked scream.

You turn a full circle – you try not to think about how Sztlyet must now be trampling him – and take in the growing quiet. Relatively speaking, that is.

Just like at that little village a year ago, it starts with one man. Or, in this case, cavalryman: he knocks down men and jumps over a dead horse riding hard toward the trailhead. A brother Muscovite follows him. Then more, and more, and more. The infantrymen begin to desperately surrender. Most of your troops grant it. The riders leave their wounded leader in the dirt; it's a miracle he wasn't stomped on.

"Riders, after them!" You look back. "Footmen, take your prisoners and secure them well. Bóg nam radzi!"

"Bóg nam radzi!"

Hopefully, He is.

You dig your heels into Sztylet and take after the fleeing Muscovites. Your men follow with cheers and taunts. "Send them to Hell!" you scream, nearly in a daze.

You look to your right at the Lipkas outpacing your heavily-armored party. Riding with their chests pressed into the necks of their horses, low and deep; they cock up for but a moment and, with sinewy smoothness, loose their arrows so as to look effortless. They are hunting stray pigs, or driving deer into a meadow.

As the forest opens up into the fallow field, you can see bodies and wild horses from the Tatars' masterful work.

An arrow whizzes by your head! You look back to tell a Tatar to be careful and realize it's come from the other direction – the Muscovites are returning fire themselves!

You struggle to reload your carbine in the saddle. The Tatars eat up most of the fighting, riding well ahead of you and your guard. The arrows sail over and beside but dwindle down into nothing.

Did you want more? More battle, that is? You feel relieved that it's over, yet disappointed the enemy force isn't crushed. You feel proud. But to be a Tatar in the vanguard, killing for fame and fortune? Your own brothers live that kind of life. Do you want more?

[] Yes.

[] No.

[] Well…

As night falls, the chase of the Muscovites is given up, and a trail of scattered bodies and dead horses, Lipka arrows sticking out of them, are followed back to the scene of the main fight. By the time the scene of the melee is reached, you're seeing completely by torchlight. And praise God for that, perhaps. The road, its ditches, and scattered out into the trailhead field, are dozens upon dozens of once-living humps, texturing the scene so as to, in the dark, look like a field of little boulders. You've seen this plenty of times in France, but never so up close. And compared to that skirmish with the bandits, it's the scale of it this time.

van Gistel runs up and drops to a knee before you. "I've failed you immensely, Your Serene Highness, the losses we've taken are… In my country, the forests aren't so thick, the Spanish use less cavalry and…"

You raise a hand for him to stop. You swallow. "van Gistel, it was I who blundered and ordered light foot to move without support. You fought hard and well."

"We're Goddamned fools is what we are," says Marszowski, riding up as if it was always obvious he'd survive. "None of us thought about where they'd be hiding."

"Waiting right for us at the end of the forest," says van Gistel. "They just poured in down the road at us, riding three by three." He crosses his arms and sighs. "Hellfire."

"My lords, Your Serene Highness." Where'd Kmita come from? "May I gently remind you, sirs, that we've won? It doesn't matter how. We won't plan hastily again."

"We lost too many men," you say.

"Eh, did we?" says Kmita, scratching his chin. He didn't lose too many of *his* men. His Zaporozhians, that is.

You look down at the workhorse-humans, huddled on the side of the road. They are caked in blood and dust, the latter clinging to the former, swigging water and harder stuff greedily from skins and wooden ladles. A few pray, others sleep. Most just drink their drinks, or pat down dead Muscovites for trinkets and coins. Their gusli player is starting up; such peaceful music feels wildly out of place here, among the heaped dead. They'll sort the bodies in the morning.

The local militia have lost dozens of good men, were humiliated by a partial rout, and have been shaken by the worst fight of their lives. They're therefore eager to execute the captured Muscovite rank-and-file. Do you allow it?

[] Yes.

The men from around Orsza – some of them have tears in their eyes. They feel as if they stand over vanquished bandits, rapists, murderers. These Muscovites burned down their houses, trampled their fields, wiped out whole families. Who are you to deny good men good vengeance?

[] No. They may be useful.

It's a little odd to bother taking such scum as prisoners, but surely Kmita will be able to bribe and torture is way into learning lots about the latest Muscovite plans for this sector. None of these men are important enough to know anything meaningful.

[] No. They are Christians.

Need you say more?

And then there's the noble with his arm in the tornus. His face is all swollen now. "I tried to stop them," explains van Gistel, gesturing around at the local troops. The Muscovite is in low spirits, understandably, yet happy enough to inform you that his family will pay lots to have him home. This hopefulness continues until your surgeon informs him that he's going to lose a hand. He's still wearing his chain shirt, his once-combed hair greasy and wild. The Muscovite looks up at you, a numb expression on his face, cursing cyclically to himself about the upcoming amputation. If he gets that far, that is – what to do with him?

[] Hang him as a common criminal on the spot.

A fitting end for a man lacking honor, who hunts the weakest among us, rather than find a real scrape; he's a jumped-up bandit.

[] You look at the local soldiers. "Do as you wish, sirs."

Sin by proxy.

[] Hold him for ransom. Get him talking, be generous.

See if you can't loosen his lips through good conduct as you await a nice chunk of silver, too — should his boasts be believed.

[] Order him tortured for information and disposed of.

A suitable end for nothing more than a brigand with a surname. Pull some teeth, a few rounds of the water cure, perhaps strappado from a tree – Kmita and his men surely know some tricks – and he'll tell us anything we need to know about him and his black work. Then, he gets some real justice: a stint of time headless in a ditch.

 

[Sertorius]

[X] Yes.
[X] No. They may be useful.
[X] Hold him for ransom. Get him talking, be generous.

What matters, is that we won.

Now, a few words about the POWs and their fate at the time.

Obviously there were no camps or anything similar. The Tatars and their Ottoman overlords loved taking prisoners to sell them as slaves for profit. Christian nations didn't practice slavery in the same way, but the fate of a captured soldier depended on his social status. Nobles were obviously held for ransom when possible (indeed, promises of ransom were good enough to keep them alive and to not sell them even among Muslims), yet that wasn't always the case. Aristocrats, rich men, high ranking officers etc. were usually kept in relatively good conditions, not for ransom, but to trade them for their own prisoners or as a bargaining chip. Their families would obviously use their magic to get them back safe and sound and could hamper the war effort to make it happen, so that a treaty is signed. Regular nobles could be held under the same conditions, ransomed or paroled until officially exchanged, if they were deemed harmless enough. The common soldier was usually impressed into the victor's forces, sent to some faraway colony or for hard labour (Siberia, Americas, mines, etc.) or outright killed later. They could also be settled on the victor's property as subjects to work the land as peasants. This last one was quite popular among the nobles of the Commonwealth, since it gave them more hands. How did the Lipkas came to be in the first place? Settled exiles, volunteers and POWs from Lithuania's skirmishes with the Tatars of course.

Muscovites on the other hand had a universal rule for anything, if none of the above was to their liking: just dump them to Siberia, far away from home or any chance to escape and have them fight and conquer the locals in the name of the Tsar, as well as for their own survival.

 

[Rolman]

The news came far too late — storms, they say, that swelled up the marshlands and washed out the roads.

The King has abandoned his land. The French King is dead – that snivelling little murderer coward cur of an older brother – and the throne falls to Aleksandar. They say he left under the cover of darkness, as an infamis would. None are sure if he will return; they say an ultimatum calling for May of '75 has already been drawn up. Indeed, you are on the fringes, and are the last to hear of this. There's no time to waste. Father is at Wilno, Krzysztof is to the north of you, you reckon, around Witebsk, and you're unsure of where Septimus or Sierotka would be.

Do you abandon your post, packing up your little court? Kmita says he won't stop you. The raids have died down a great deal, though the prisoner's promises of escalation must be noted.

[] Yes, to Kraków.

Get right into the thick of things, and fast. Hunt down Zamoyski, or the Zborowski brothers, or maybe even your eldest brother and cousin.

[] Yes, to Witebsk.

Meet with brother Krzysztof and Voivode Pac, too, to coordinate the Eastern defense before venturing westwards. Perhaps the best idea for the Grand Duchy proper.

[] Yes, to Dubinki Castle and Wilno.

The safest move, in your mind, is to head to the family seat to confer with Father. A son obeys.

[] Yes, to Kijów.

Oh?! That's quite a taking of the initiative. You move to meet with the Prince Konstanty Wasyl, unilaterally and on behalf of the family, with the aim of forming a united, pro-Imperial front in Lithuania. Going over Father's head may absolutely backfire, though, and who knows if you'll even be successful.

[] Remain here.

Mind this damned border; not to mention, you're growing a little fond of Orsza. Much to do here. Much to improve, perhaps a faith to spread, even. Besides, there may be some wisdom in waiting things out.

There is also the issue of the of-late one-handed Muscovite noble, a young man named Jerzy, or Yuriy. An emissary with a promissory note for a sizable sum of silver has arrived, and you have agents ready to cross the border and receive it.

Do you…

[] Ransom him off and pocket the money.

Not *necessarily* dishonorable.

[] Ransom him off and give the money to the family.

A proper prince.

[] Ransom him off and leave the money to Kmita.

A farewell(?) gift, and a reinvestment into local coffers.

And, at last, there is the issue of the captured Muscovite vory, as the lordling Yuriy spitefully describes his own men. Indeed, they seem like rough types, and possess no meaningful information. However, they do make decent light cavalry, and bear no loyalty to the so-called Tsar.

Do you…

[] Hang them.

Scum.

[] Cart them back over the border.

Let the scum live.

[] Bond them as serfs.

If they don't all just run off, you'll have bought yourself a tiny village in the middle of Ruthenia. How quaint.

[] Press them into service.

Although of dubious discipline and loyalty, a training regimen could separate the wheat from the chaff and add to your sizable force of retainers and Lipkas. You know them to be solid horsemen.

 

[Rolman]

You were in the forest. You are in your bedchamber. The air is humid and stuffy. Your skin clings to the sheets. A hand is stroking your hair, another rests on your sternum.

"It's been a long time since you've had a nightmare," Mariana says. "It's almost dawn."

You exhale. Indeed. Feels novel, almost. It's odd that it comes now of all times, when you're finally forming some callouses, even seeing the brutal "fun" in battle. The thrill that exists in, at least. You are home, you are safe. In a sense. It's odd that you slept so soundly heading back to Orsza and, now, your first night in a proper chamber–

"Stanisław?"

You twitch a little. "Yes, yes, sorry. I started thinking."

"About?"

"About how… This battle felt different. Different from the bandits, different from the duel." You swallow. Your mouth is dry. "I almost liked it, I can't explain it. There's this buzzing. You get drunk off it, the thrill that you're alive and others aren't." Your pulse slows.

"You're scared of that?"

"Naturally." You smirk. "I'm scared of any intoxicant, anything that pulls me away from the Lord. And that's before the killing bit."

She doesn't say anything for a moment. "You killed someone again?"

"Yes. Two, or maybe three. That makes it four or five now."

"You're not evil, Stanisław," she says plainly, reading your mind. "Not more evil than anybody else, that is. We're sinners all." You swallow. You can't think. You stare at the ceiling. "You can go back to sleep," Mariana offers.

Listen to the frogs, and the bugs, and the little taps of summer rain on the window, the dust swirling in a moonbeam. Your wife's breathing.

"No," you say, "I feel quite awake."

Mariana sniffs. "A few years ago, back at Kodeń, a scullery maid — this waif of a little virgo — fell pregnant and wouldn't say who the father was." She pauses, and you look over at her; she's staring at the ceiling, too, it seems. "And so she'd be cloistered, as it goes. But right as the nuns were taking her out of the great hall, she turned to my father and said – I remember it word for word: 'I will one day stop loving my man, and in the convent I'll cry and cry for what I've done. Yes, I will hate it at first. But I will not have lost my love. I'll turn it to God; this will be no punishment for me, no satisfaction will anyone gain from a sinner's suffering. I will feel the sun on the shoulders of my habit and smile.' She held herself so close to her own breast. She stood tall. I had never seen a woman talk like that before."

Ugh! "If she's not careful, that's mighty prideful, she's going to He—"

"But I was going to say that she reminds me of you," says Mariana. "You're always on about pride — you see it in yourself, you see it in other people — what's it mean to you really? I've never thought to ask."

"To forget, in one's conceit, that they are first and foremost a child of God. I gave into the pressures of worldly, princely life, for example," you explain. "As she, in her pride — I mean, she basically said she'd never submit."

"That's not what I heard," she says flatly. "I heard a woman, love as her strength, knowing that she may have both the world and the Lord. The Christ walked among the sinners and knew them, Stanisław."

"So…"

"Well, you don't. You abhor them. The Savior saves through love. I think you ought to have some sun on your habit," she manages to chuckle.

"Soooo…"

"So I'm going to ask something of you, please: there are some Genoese musicians in town." You can hear her turn her head to at last look at you. "May we have them over for a little feast?"

You sigh through your nose.


You've been dreading this all day, praying on it, already asking for forgiveness. But she's hard to say no to.

And now she's close to your lips, adjusting the brooch in your cap, straightening out its peacock feather. You hold your breath; you can never get used to the carnal side of things, for some reason, even after a year. Maybe childlessness is adding pressure, but nevermind that.

"I cannot believe you put me up to this," you say.

"Well," she smiles, "if the Friar complains, tell him it was your own personal Delilah that made you do it."

You roll your eyes. "You toe a fine line…."

"Oh, to the Devil, I cannot win, can I?"

And she's really going to mention the Devil… "Mariana."

She taps your nose with a whistle. "Try and have fun. I'm sorry I blasphemed," she says, signing the Cross as if by rote. "We're not doing gift exchanges or anything like that, remember? Nothing stately, just food and drink and dance with some local lords." She smirks. "Do you know the cascarda? It's newer."

Ehmmmmmm— Oh! "Yes, actually." You can't help but smile. "I learned it the night I met you. Which was a while ago… And you know Marszowski and I don't practice so much anymore. Maybe I last tried a cascarda in May?"

"Brave young hussar," says Mariana, putting on a baritone with a thick Western accent, like some sort of real scar-faced rider. "You mean to tell me you're scared of a little dance with a lady?" She returns to her pretty voice, her melodic Ruthenian drawl. "Come now!" she laughs.

"I— I am not!" you exclaim. "By my boots, have you been drinking?" She's quite animated.

"What? No! I haven't had a dance since our wedding night. I'm not allowed to be excited, my prince?"

You sigh. The World is winning. You look into her eyes and freeze up every time. She's got some sort of hold on you, something that makes you think she's right, that you need to listen to her. It's in those cursed, damned eyes. Maybe she's more of a personal Bathsheba.

But your heart stirs no matter what, you short-haired Samson. The local lords learned the cascarda from the Genoese quickly, which, praise God, gives you a dance's worth of time to surveil what exactly the steps are; it seeps back into your memory and, as it turns out, this dance is a rather flirtatious one. Naturally. You look over at her. "What?" she says, looking incorrigible. "You're going to like it."

Maybe. Either way, the host can't exactly back out of dancing before the assembled guests, however inconsequential they may be. Although, it's always good to be generous, to entertain: Marszowski and van Gistel dance gleefully with local maidens, while Kmita holds court at his end of the table. It is nights like these – for the worldly, that is – that renew the bonds of liege and vassal, master and servant, man and wife. The herald announces his introductions, and Mariana stand with her hand extended. "Too late to say no now," she smiles.

The dancefloor turns and gives a collective bow upon your arrival, men stooping and women dipping. A couple weeks out of practice, and just one song's worth to learn off observation. You nod to the musicians, approach Mariana, and exchange customary salutes – for a moment she is the Princess.

And off! You charge each other, stop close, and begin to trot around each other in little circles, a little chase; and here is Mariana Sapieha, with her grin and crow's feet and tall cheekbones. You repeat the orbit twice before drawing away from each other, still trot-stepping from foot to foot. You end up a decent bit apart at transverses to each other, briefly halting with a hop – line up and mirror her! You shuffle over and look down: shoes to eyes, eyes to shoes (mainly shoes), kick, and kick.

Where's the talking? The day you met, the two of you talked the whole time through the dance. You twirl about in place and Mariana laughs, its warmth spreading somewhat; there's a stylized approach – this is the flirtation – in which you approach Mariana closely, within inches of her face, as she stands her ground. You do so self-consciously, shuffling toward her on beat, well-aware of the frivolity and impious overtones. Mariana places a hand on her hip and tilts her chin up, performing incredulousness.

"Hello, lord prince," she says as you dance about in front of her, her big eyes magnified and causing a flip-flop below your ribs. You don't reply. "Have some fun!" you twirl around and meet her face-to-face once more. "I can see it… I can see it…" she teases, as the mirror-game begins anew. The two of you kick backwards, away from each other. "I can see that smile peeking out!"

Yes, indeed, the smile that'll keep you from salvation. You know that these are the ludes so warned about and yet you feel such a stirring, such a blooming; it comes from your lungs and heart and the top of your head. You laugh. Mariana laughs harder in reply. Try to contain yourself.

Now it's Mariana's turn. She sidles up and, in her spare moment before hopping back to spin about, kisses a quick little tap on your nose.

"A Delilah!" you cry, an unbidden smile on your face. And yet she swishes backwards – you to follow. Good facetime.

"I have no need for a melancholic husband," she jokes. Ever the bold one! "He must learn that play and prayer can coexist." She jumps back and twirls. You love the way her skirts fly, turning her into a spinning top. The music sounds like summer without the heat.

"I'm well-aware of your game!"

"And I'm winning!"

You scoff. Even so… Well, even so what? Keep dancing! The mirrored kicks come once more. "My lady…"

A silence as the round of parallel steps and spins comes to a close. It's the final approach now, where the couple joins hands at last, the courtship complete. You take her palm into yours and the two of you dance a circle. You steal glances at her, and she steals them back. She doesn't seem intent on saying anything.

A nice period to dance facing each other comes about, hopping left-right. In the humidity of the feasting hall, you feel the cool of the air breezing over you as you dance, the thump of your heart, the singing in your legs. It is the attunement of battle directed into the steps, into joy. And the Rule advises against mirth "That's your thinking face," you hear Mariana say, "how are you thinking and dancing all at once?"

Indeed, that's odd. But are you really thinking, or merely noticing? Noticing everything about you, for a moment everything is no longer a game of intrigue or a threat or a robber-killer lurking around the corner. You dance through the final rounds of the cascarda, a man alive. Or, perhaps, utterly defeated by temptation, lost to revelry.

You're not sure just what it is you're feeling as the dance draws to a close. You pant slightly, your muscles hum, and you feel completely alive.

Mariana smiles, a little bead of sweat glinting in the chandelier's candlelight off her forehead. "Happy?" she asks.

 

[Rolman]

It felt strange to go again when the last time was for murder. You cannot shake that idea. Despite the odd, terrible thrill of battle, the exceptions God will surely make for men fighting for their lives. Friar Gosiewski gave you the earthly-duties-of-a-prince reassurance but all you see is their faces.

This time around, you headed to confession simply to deal with last night's frivolities. After the ritual is complete and penance handed out (wool clothes for a week and multiple Ave Marias), he raises his hand for you to stay.

"Do you know why witches, heretics, sodomites – do you know why they must be burned, son? And I will tell you now it is not to strike fear into the hearts of the astray." He sniffs. "Though the Emperor does use it for counterfeiters. But why must those of great Sin be burned?"

You cock your head. Fire destroys. Life grows from ash. "To… clean them?"

Friar Gosiewski nods. "Precisely. It is a gift, really, to go to their God mortified greatly and well-punished on this Earth. So that passing fire may, perhaps, save them from the eternal one."

He's right. "It's a mercy, in its strange way. But why tell me this?"

"Because you need not reject the love of the world and the things in it so that you may love God better. It is prideful Sin to make a monk of yourself without tonsuring; it is haughty, in its way. You should pray and work, not work on praying."

The Friar clasps his hands together, leans in. "I let you burn the way a convert burns; while it's not in place to comment on your Soul, I reckon you're a good deal cleaner than when you took me on. The time has come for maintenance. You will sin and cry mercy, sin and cry mercy, for Sin defines man."

"I don't…" you can't believe what you're about to say. It doesn't make sense. Be less faithful?

"You hate music like a Genevan, you say you won't see plays anymore. And yet do you not sing your psalms for the Hours?"

"I do."

He smiles gently. You've never seen the man anything less than calm and attentive. "And do you not think the Lord our God planted the seeds of holy music and mystery plays in the Blessed Sister of Bingen? Or that Saint Hieronymus never compared prayer to an oarsman's chant? Laughter invites Sin, yet humor is a gift from God. Remember that in the list of good works the Saint says to not be quickly and easily moved to laugh – not to not laugh at all, son."

He taps his fingers together, forming shapes with his hands. "Indeed, the feast is a cause for trepidation; many gateways to Sin exist, it is quite easy to walk too close to the fire. But do not mistake a mystery play for a parody."

"I don't understand. Benedict advises expressly against mirth."

"Yes. Jesters, farces, satires and the like. Diversions. Much of the profane may yield sacred insights if one knows where to look. One simply must harden their heart and think of eternal life when the time comes to join in. You danced with your wife, and no other?"

"Yes, father."

"And do you reckon it deepened the bond of sacred marriage?"

"I reckon it did."

"And you had not more than musicians present?"

"Not more than they and the guests."

He pinches a temple, rolls his tongue around in his mouth. "Then those were hardly ludi. You know your penance is light this week. Yes, dancing may be Sin, but moderation, son, moderation. To be human is to fail and sin. Were you in my vocation, then it would need to be cut off completely. But to be a Prince is to be worldly. It is God's burden upon you."

"It was the world that nearly destroyed me, father," you say, shocked that you're turning steely, "it is the Lord, His Son, and His Saints – they pulled me back from the edge."

"And, in their unyielding mercy, they did," replies the Friar, unperturbed. "It's just that… You come to me speaking on these matters as gravely as you do when you kill men. It is odd, and in my mind, unfitting of an oblate. One must understand that good works and sins are a weighted thing. One mustn't forget that there are those which are mortal, and those which are more trivial."

You swipe your hand through your hair. He's right. Perhaps. Perhaps partly right. Wouldn't he know better than you?

The problem is that you cannot shake the court of France from your mind, with its powder and jewelry and sodomy and decadence. You found it distasteful even back then, before you truly knew why. Did God not visit terrible punishment upon them: to split their people in twain and set them against each other in a terrible mockery of holy war? That court, in its endless deceits and diversions, visited death and suffering and the gateway to truly mortal Sin upon the heads of all.

And yet it seems that every turn, joy arises from Sin – and what to make of that? Prayer is truly rapturous, bringing tears and trembling at every Hour you can complete, and yet that dance with Mariana, the way Marszowski moves through life unburdened by the things he's seen. In it you see the sun, the one warming the serving girl's habit; you felt it on your arms with a ceiling above you. Moved to smile, to spite the great Saint. Or is this the light of the Lord Himself?

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

You're not sure what you're sure of. It is God's burden upon you.

 

[Rolman]

After two weeks, he stopped being so sullen about the lost hand. He was brave through the whole thing, you admit it, biting his belt and hissing. Never screamed; that's a tough fellow. The cauter seems to have worked – no swelling, no pus or blood, no miasma. He'll live.

"I was at this feast! One with big fight and fire on you all's lordship's jacket!" His name is Jerzy – Yuriy – and he seems to think this is all a big adventure at this point, drinking wine for the third time ever, tucking into an exotic leg of indyk.

He struggles with the throaty "luh" sound of your tongue. He also is trying to be polite, but keeps speaking to you in the plural. It's too funny to correct. "Of course, this is why I attack you all's lands, crossing river, shedding blood. My master, Prince Szujski, told me to do it. For whole business with spies and deceit and all that. Said his honor's eh, ah, attacked? And this one is good servant: good servant obeys."

Good servant killed hundreds of serfs, or did things worse than killing. He's a bastard. But Kmita advised for a light touch, so a light touch there will be. You blink, taking a bite of your own food. "Very well. And how far away is home, my lord?"

He points toward the Dniepr; he saw it on his way into the castle. "Past Smoleńsk, in eastern Voivodeship's area. Away from battlefields."

"So, were those men your family's?"

"No, no, God, no," he laughs. "My job's not… not the good place to be, dangerous, no famousness. All my men er, uh, all my men were, what is it, vory."

"Vory?"

"Yes, vory… Uh, bad men, doing bad…"

"Złodzieje?" It's pretty much the same word for "thieves" in Ruthenian, too.

He lights up. "Zlohchyey, yes!"

Vory… What's that make you, then, cur? Just because you were born in a little kremlin doesn't mean — you bite your tongue, of course. "Vory, I see. Vory." It's good to learn a new word, though. "Did you do something for such an assignment?"

"Job was meant to be easy. Fast, in-and-out, easy silver. We weren't ready for you all's lordship's horses."

Ah. An untested lad, like yourself, maybe. It softens you a little. They put him on an "easy" assignment and it went sideways for him. You chuckle to his face.

"You all got us, it's true. Cannot say you all didn't," he shakes his head. "Fine fight." The poor man's eyes dart to his bandaged stump. "Poor hand."

"Poor hand," you agree. "So, sir, do you reckon that battle will quiet things down?"

He bobs his head and shrugs. "War is coming soon, I think. Real war. Never been this… this… hot before. Here on border. Not in this one's life, you all's lordship."

Thank you, young Yuriy. "Tempers flaring?"

"Forgive me, you all's lordship?"

"People getting angry?"

"Oh, oh. Oh, yes. My master, his master, blessed Tsar. Things are very…"

You make the motion of a rope being pulled taut. "Tense?"

"Tense. Angry, ready, eye on your new King. Want, um, mest', mest'..." He starts making shapes with his hand. "Get back at you."

Ah. Zemsta. Pomsta.

Revenge.

 

[Rolman]

Lord Kmita accepted his great big bag of Muscovite silver with a gleaming smile that lifted up his Zaporozhian mustache – nothing like a parting gift (the cynical would say bribe) for one of the finest spies in the realm. Even if he himself spied on you, he may prove to be an invaluable friend down the line, and you're certain that you had won his respect through deeds alone. He'll stay behind to manage Orsza and its surroundings in your absence.

It only makes sense that, as soon as the news of the King's flight reaches Moskwa, things would heat up again. Especially with tensions so inflamed by the battling and spy games in the Smoleńsk-Orsza direction. Feeling some amount of culpability, you ride north through the summer birch groves to Witebsk, a modest yet imposing city – she bristles with fortifications – built in the wooden Ruthenian style.

The Voivode waits before his retinue outside the city gates. He's not smiling, though his face bears laugh lines like he should be. You see some gray in his hair, peeking out from under his fur hat. "Your Serene Highness, I am the Voivode and Grand Lithuanian Podstoli Stanisław Pac of the Gozdawa and, respectfully, you ought to know that by now. It's been…" he counts on his fingers. "Four, five months, with only Kmita sending me letters. I could have sent down royal troops to handle your problems – what's the meaning of your silence?"

He's abrupt. You're struck silent for a moment. "And His Serene Highness the Prince Krzysztof is in the field around Połock. He was kind enough to let me know that," he adds. "There's about to be a war on, by God's bones, and Your Serene Highness is in Smoleńsk starting drunken brawls and lighting his coattails on fire." He shakes his head. "Which certainly didn't help things. Christ almighty, sir."

Ugh, a blasphemer. And he refused to use the correct styling just now. It seems like proper cooperation is at risk before it may even begin. This is his Voivodeship, but you're his superior in terms of title. Therefore, you reckon he thinks you arrogant.

[] "I meant no disrespect, my lord. I was caught up in management and fending off their raids; I simply hadn't the presence of mind."

Smooth things over, even if it means self-deprecation.

[] "Did I or did I not handle my sector well, though, my lord?"

You try not to sound too combative, but you feel a little righteous thorn in your gut. You didn't speak to him because you didn't need his help.

[] "Do not speak to a Prince in this way, sir. Allow me to explain."

Insolent man. You're his better in order of precedence, even if he's a voivode. Protect your honor, even if it means risking a confrontation.

[] "I figured Lord Kmita was our go-between, my lord – and he was. I meant no harm in it."

A deflection, but you truly didn't think he would take offense.