Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
II. October 31, 1572. Pomeranian Voivodeship, Polish Crownlands, the Commonwealth.
- Location
- United States
"Oh, Lord, where to begin," Marszowski says, clasping his hands in thought. "Hmm… Well, the state's reformed, our Commonwealth." You nod. "In terms of new rights and privileges I'm all in favor, personally, though as a sworn man of the family – I can't be. This new union undermines us immensely. Your father made a stand against it at Lublin. He failed. His punishment?"
A flash of anger from the aging rake. "All the Grand Duchy south of, oh, Brześć? It's Poland now. The Crown. And now, any old Polish noble can waltz into Lithuania and expect to be treated on equal footing with illustrious houses such as ours, as if they're sons of the land. The line between Kingdom and Grand Duchy is fading."
"Appropriation?! Revocation?!" you splutter, already feeling pangs of anger, of mobilization. A dormant loyalty stirs.
Marszowski nods grimly. "We've been greatly weakened. Libertas Aurea, eh? Sed non nobis. Lithuania rallies around us now more than ever, at least, but missing four whole rightful Voivodeships." He sighs. "Now, onto succession?"
You try to let the spike of rage in your chest pass through. "Please."
"Well, as you know," he lowers himself to a harsh whisper, "that mean old cunt Zygmunt August is no more. And with him goes the line of Jadwiga and Jagiełło; the male line, that is. Does a Princess Anna ring a bell?"
You scrunch your face in thought. Nope. Marszowski continues: "Zygmunt's spinster sister. Everybody forgot about her, but she's the sole unmarried link to the old line. She may well now be Christendom's most desired maiden, nevermind that she's pushing fifty. Any potential marriage will sway the voters –"
Wait! "They literally meant an election? As in, the Senat and Sejm are going to…"
"Well, yes, it's tradition to a degree, Zygmunt the Old, the one from before your time, I mean, he promulgated…" Marszowski stops himself from a tangent. "The important thing is that it could be this way forever now; vivente rege's head is on the block. But which nobles may elect the king? Shall there be fixed Articles for the new king? Will the new Royal Majesty have a suckling pig or a dolphin for his first meal? Wheels of Italian cheese?" He laughs dryly. "Kurwa…"
The fencing master manages to calm himself down. "All rather unprecedented. Understandably, nobody quite knows what's going on. The Archbishop of Gniezno is damn near holding the country together singlehandedly. Now, onto our players: the King of Sweden, the Emperor and his folk, the mad Muscovite, that French prince Sierotka's off to see, uh…"
"Aleksandar. I met him. Bastard. And dangerous. Had a hand in St. Bartholomew's Day."
Shock flashes across the knight's face. "What? Tell me about that later!" You nod. "Ah, ehm, yes, so, him – he's arguably the status quo man. Frenchman and Turk are allies, a friend of the Frenchman is a friend of the Turk and that makes the south much less treacherous. France's distance means he's far from a power base, unlike the others. He'd be our king, understand? Not to mention if his homeland calls him for whatever reason, Anna could rule in his stead."
"Yes, I'm following."
"Now, the Habsburgs, they're our choice. I'd rather never have a foreigner sit the throne but I can't disagree with the rationale. Keep the crownlanders on their toes, gives us some breathing room in that regard, and guarantees peace in Śląsk and Upper Hungary, too. The clergy – the Catholic ones – are over the moon about it, naturally, and ought to further confuse things for the Crown's partisans."
He thumps his fist on his thigh and looks out the carriage window. "The only downside, besides some of the Protestants pitching a fit, is that the Turk may turn against us, or we likewise find ourselves dragged into an Imperial war against them. Their Tatar lapdogs would never quit. We'd also have to turn our back on Transylvania."
"Doesn't seem ideal," you muse, scratching your chin. "But anything to stymie the Kingdom proper, I suppose."
"Mhm," agrees Marszowski. "Next is the Swedish King. he's something like a… half-Lutheran? need I say more about who'd want him, then?" He chuckles. "But, to be fair, he's married to Princess Katarzyna, and his son and heir is of royal blood therefore. The Emperor's great-grandfather is Kazimierz Andrzej but, you know, proximity and all…"
"Naturally, yes," you say. "Do continue."
"The protest candidate is the Muscovite, damn his eyes and his name," Marszowski spits. "At least that's how I see it, not sure if his party is being genuine or not. It's mainly Ruskie from our – what should be our – southern Voivodeships, as well as some of the lesser families. I'm not quite sure why they're asking to be murdered."
Marszowski begins to snap his fingers. "Ay, agh, come on… Right, yes, some of the more minor candidates: crownlanders with a chivalric, romantic streak are gunning for a Śląski Piast, from one of those little fiefs. Rather unserious, if you ask me."
He knits his brow and gives an approving nod. "I'd give more credence to our little Transylvanian faction, they've got some sense: ties high and low to the Zápolyas and Batorys, a counterweight against the Emperor, buffer against the Turk, the prospect of a new, friendly realm over the mountains…"
"Right… Right-right," you ponder. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us."
"We do indeed. That being said…" Marszowski leans out the coach window. "Sir Sienkiewicz, bring up that Burgundy, please! Goblets too!"
You smile. An attendant rides up a light trot, rifling through a saddlebag. "Your Serene Highness, Sir Marszowski," he nods humbly, giving an awkward bow still in the saddle before producing the requested items.
An odd feeling. The other children growing up (that bully aside, but he got birched til he bled) treated you with deference but in France you were oft little better than a common page. You pinch your nose for a few moments, pondering.
You shift your attention to Sir Marszowski, who has already made it through the wax and wood stopper, now making an effort at clean pours in spite of the bumps and bounces of the road. "Beer and gorzała make a man sleepy, lustful, stupid, angry – wine stimulates, brings good conversation. And fie on it if we stain our clothes," he explains. He passes you a goblet and you begin to sip.
"It seems to me we live in a time of great change," you say. "Which is exciting, I suppose. But great change certainly visited France in my time there."
"You've grown into a smart lad – is it alright I'm this informal?" You wave your hand: oh please. He chuckles. "Thank you, lord Prince, heh; but, yes, I think you're onto something. That's the great fear of us all."
"Civil war."
His expression is sober. "But we cannot let the Crown take anything further from us. The new Union may hobble the king and his lackeys' power, but Zygmunt gave us his parting shot before the grave, that's for damn sure."
[] "Let come what may, then."
[] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."
[] "So long as we not slaughter each other for the sake of one's confession."
[] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."
"May God show mercy, perhaps that's the way it'll be," replies Marszowski.
You stare at your boots and exhale, just short of a sigh, beginning a coughing fit you will yourself to cut short. You look him in the eye. He sits up straight and prepares to listen; he can read it on your face.
"Dear Chevalier, on the ship, when I thought I would die, I had a vision one night. The sole lantern had blown out and I felt my soul rising up through me. Out of my chest and into my throat and mouth and nose. I was ready to go. Someone appeared in the doorway of my cabin; I could see them even though it was pitch-black. My ears rang and I thought myself dying and I saw all the beauties of God's creation magnified, down to the most minute detail of the head of an ant, or the veins of a leaf in the sun. I saw my mother, Andrzej. My mother. My mother."
He sits in silence, unblinking, utterly consumed. You've never used his Christian name before. "I saw my mother," you repeat, voice cracking. Tears well. "I can scarcely remember her face but I saw her. She is in Heaven, I just know it, it was beautiful." You try to collect yourself somewhat. "You know how when, on the cusp of sleep, one feels as if they're falling and then jolts awake?"
Marszowski nods.
"I felt that, it felt like I was shooting out of ice-cold water with just a vapor of breath left in me. I awoke and the lantern was burning again. I was able to walk by the end of the week."
You clear your throat and wipe your eyes. Marszowski sits in silence – you're not sure for how long.
"Lad," he begins tentatively, "you know I was known to skip Mass – and now the services these days." He speaks again after a big, chest-puffing inhale. "I fear God. I do. I hope He knows so. Still, I've violated the bonds of marriage countless times, killed men for pride's sake, engaged in every frivolity, every vanity."
His free hand is upturned, suppliant. It's vaguely disturbing to see him like this. "Unless you were quite literally dreaming, son, I think Death himself passed you over. He received new orders from his master."
You don't know what to say. The pines outside remind you of a company of pike from the helmets up, stretching out in all directions with their rod-like trunks and green spearheads. The men always shifted from this foot to that back in France, as they waited to kill or die. But the forest is calm, not swaying as they'd be were they awaiting battle.
The land is at peace for now. Your memory, your fantasy, your dreams begin to blend. You are transported in several directions, to several places at once, you pull inward yet start up coughing again.
From rote reflex alone, you pray an Ave Maria. It grounds you; you realize you're digging your nails into your sweaty palms, reopening scabbed-over bloodletting cuts on your hands. The holy poetry of that is not lost on you, and you feel as if you're being watched by something beyond human. You realize you'd really like a mirror, though you fear what you'll see.
You touch your ears, your temples going down to where the surgeon shaved your sideburns, the underside of your chin – they're there, too. You recall how they snake up your arms, maybe five or six or seven on each, how they live in the cruxes behind your knees. The bump-bones of your ankles. Even your nethers. How am I alive?
You wanted to see all those unburnt farms again, to leave the wood. The coach trundles on. Eight days to Wawel.
Marszowski breaks the silence. "You're marked, son. No doubt in my mind."
"I never knew you to take divine signs so seriously."
"I didn't." He takes a big, steadying gulp of wine. You decide it's a good idea and follow suit.
But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never be more athirst: but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.
The crisp bite of the drink is fading in your mouth, reminding you of the tart film left by raspberries. A sensation from a long time ago, when things made sense and came easily. Marszowski bows his head; you fear he's nearly beside himself. He bounces one leg at speed.
You begin anew: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…
So little time to prepare, and then it is simply upon you.
A flash of anger from the aging rake. "All the Grand Duchy south of, oh, Brześć? It's Poland now. The Crown. And now, any old Polish noble can waltz into Lithuania and expect to be treated on equal footing with illustrious houses such as ours, as if they're sons of the land. The line between Kingdom and Grand Duchy is fading."
"Appropriation?! Revocation?!" you splutter, already feeling pangs of anger, of mobilization. A dormant loyalty stirs.
Marszowski nods grimly. "We've been greatly weakened. Libertas Aurea, eh? Sed non nobis. Lithuania rallies around us now more than ever, at least, but missing four whole rightful Voivodeships." He sighs. "Now, onto succession?"
You try to let the spike of rage in your chest pass through. "Please."
"Well, as you know," he lowers himself to a harsh whisper, "that mean old cunt Zygmunt August is no more. And with him goes the line of Jadwiga and Jagiełło; the male line, that is. Does a Princess Anna ring a bell?"
You scrunch your face in thought. Nope. Marszowski continues: "Zygmunt's spinster sister. Everybody forgot about her, but she's the sole unmarried link to the old line. She may well now be Christendom's most desired maiden, nevermind that she's pushing fifty. Any potential marriage will sway the voters –"
Wait! "They literally meant an election? As in, the Senat and Sejm are going to…"
"Well, yes, it's tradition to a degree, Zygmunt the Old, the one from before your time, I mean, he promulgated…" Marszowski stops himself from a tangent. "The important thing is that it could be this way forever now; vivente rege's head is on the block. But which nobles may elect the king? Shall there be fixed Articles for the new king? Will the new Royal Majesty have a suckling pig or a dolphin for his first meal? Wheels of Italian cheese?" He laughs dryly. "Kurwa…"
The fencing master manages to calm himself down. "All rather unprecedented. Understandably, nobody quite knows what's going on. The Archbishop of Gniezno is damn near holding the country together singlehandedly. Now, onto our players: the King of Sweden, the Emperor and his folk, the mad Muscovite, that French prince Sierotka's off to see, uh…"
"Aleksandar. I met him. Bastard. And dangerous. Had a hand in St. Bartholomew's Day."
Shock flashes across the knight's face. "What? Tell me about that later!" You nod. "Ah, ehm, yes, so, him – he's arguably the status quo man. Frenchman and Turk are allies, a friend of the Frenchman is a friend of the Turk and that makes the south much less treacherous. France's distance means he's far from a power base, unlike the others. He'd be our king, understand? Not to mention if his homeland calls him for whatever reason, Anna could rule in his stead."
"Yes, I'm following."
"Now, the Habsburgs, they're our choice. I'd rather never have a foreigner sit the throne but I can't disagree with the rationale. Keep the crownlanders on their toes, gives us some breathing room in that regard, and guarantees peace in Śląsk and Upper Hungary, too. The clergy – the Catholic ones – are over the moon about it, naturally, and ought to further confuse things for the Crown's partisans."
He thumps his fist on his thigh and looks out the carriage window. "The only downside, besides some of the Protestants pitching a fit, is that the Turk may turn against us, or we likewise find ourselves dragged into an Imperial war against them. Their Tatar lapdogs would never quit. We'd also have to turn our back on Transylvania."
"Doesn't seem ideal," you muse, scratching your chin. "But anything to stymie the Kingdom proper, I suppose."
"Mhm," agrees Marszowski. "Next is the Swedish King. he's something like a… half-Lutheran? need I say more about who'd want him, then?" He chuckles. "But, to be fair, he's married to Princess Katarzyna, and his son and heir is of royal blood therefore. The Emperor's great-grandfather is Kazimierz Andrzej but, you know, proximity and all…"
"Naturally, yes," you say. "Do continue."
"The protest candidate is the Muscovite, damn his eyes and his name," Marszowski spits. "At least that's how I see it, not sure if his party is being genuine or not. It's mainly Ruskie from our – what should be our – southern Voivodeships, as well as some of the lesser families. I'm not quite sure why they're asking to be murdered."
Marszowski begins to snap his fingers. "Ay, agh, come on… Right, yes, some of the more minor candidates: crownlanders with a chivalric, romantic streak are gunning for a Śląski Piast, from one of those little fiefs. Rather unserious, if you ask me."
He knits his brow and gives an approving nod. "I'd give more credence to our little Transylvanian faction, they've got some sense: ties high and low to the Zápolyas and Batorys, a counterweight against the Emperor, buffer against the Turk, the prospect of a new, friendly realm over the mountains…"
"Right… Right-right," you ponder. "Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us."
"We do indeed. That being said…" Marszowski leans out the coach window. "Sir Sienkiewicz, bring up that Burgundy, please! Goblets too!"
You smile. An attendant rides up a light trot, rifling through a saddlebag. "Your Serene Highness, Sir Marszowski," he nods humbly, giving an awkward bow still in the saddle before producing the requested items.
An odd feeling. The other children growing up (that bully aside, but he got birched til he bled) treated you with deference but in France you were oft little better than a common page. You pinch your nose for a few moments, pondering.
You shift your attention to Sir Marszowski, who has already made it through the wax and wood stopper, now making an effort at clean pours in spite of the bumps and bounces of the road. "Beer and gorzała make a man sleepy, lustful, stupid, angry – wine stimulates, brings good conversation. And fie on it if we stain our clothes," he explains. He passes you a goblet and you begin to sip.
"It seems to me we live in a time of great change," you say. "Which is exciting, I suppose. But great change certainly visited France in my time there."
"You've grown into a smart lad – is it alright I'm this informal?" You wave your hand: oh please. He chuckles. "Thank you, lord Prince, heh; but, yes, I think you're onto something. That's the great fear of us all."
"Civil war."
His expression is sober. "But we cannot let the Crown take anything further from us. The new Union may hobble the king and his lackeys' power, but Zygmunt gave us his parting shot before the grave, that's for damn sure."
[] "Let come what may, then."
[] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."
[] "So long as we not slaughter each other for the sake of one's confession."
[] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."
"May God show mercy, perhaps that's the way it'll be," replies Marszowski.
You stare at your boots and exhale, just short of a sigh, beginning a coughing fit you will yourself to cut short. You look him in the eye. He sits up straight and prepares to listen; he can read it on your face.
"Dear Chevalier, on the ship, when I thought I would die, I had a vision one night. The sole lantern had blown out and I felt my soul rising up through me. Out of my chest and into my throat and mouth and nose. I was ready to go. Someone appeared in the doorway of my cabin; I could see them even though it was pitch-black. My ears rang and I thought myself dying and I saw all the beauties of God's creation magnified, down to the most minute detail of the head of an ant, or the veins of a leaf in the sun. I saw my mother, Andrzej. My mother. My mother."
He sits in silence, unblinking, utterly consumed. You've never used his Christian name before. "I saw my mother," you repeat, voice cracking. Tears well. "I can scarcely remember her face but I saw her. She is in Heaven, I just know it, it was beautiful." You try to collect yourself somewhat. "You know how when, on the cusp of sleep, one feels as if they're falling and then jolts awake?"
Marszowski nods.
"I felt that, it felt like I was shooting out of ice-cold water with just a vapor of breath left in me. I awoke and the lantern was burning again. I was able to walk by the end of the week."
You clear your throat and wipe your eyes. Marszowski sits in silence – you're not sure for how long.
"Lad," he begins tentatively, "you know I was known to skip Mass – and now the services these days." He speaks again after a big, chest-puffing inhale. "I fear God. I do. I hope He knows so. Still, I've violated the bonds of marriage countless times, killed men for pride's sake, engaged in every frivolity, every vanity."
His free hand is upturned, suppliant. It's vaguely disturbing to see him like this. "Unless you were quite literally dreaming, son, I think Death himself passed you over. He received new orders from his master."
You don't know what to say. The pines outside remind you of a company of pike from the helmets up, stretching out in all directions with their rod-like trunks and green spearheads. The men always shifted from this foot to that back in France, as they waited to kill or die. But the forest is calm, not swaying as they'd be were they awaiting battle.
The land is at peace for now. Your memory, your fantasy, your dreams begin to blend. You are transported in several directions, to several places at once, you pull inward yet start up coughing again.
From rote reflex alone, you pray an Ave Maria. It grounds you; you realize you're digging your nails into your sweaty palms, reopening scabbed-over bloodletting cuts on your hands. The holy poetry of that is not lost on you, and you feel as if you're being watched by something beyond human. You realize you'd really like a mirror, though you fear what you'll see.
You touch your ears, your temples going down to where the surgeon shaved your sideburns, the underside of your chin – they're there, too. You recall how they snake up your arms, maybe five or six or seven on each, how they live in the cruxes behind your knees. The bump-bones of your ankles. Even your nethers. How am I alive?
You wanted to see all those unburnt farms again, to leave the wood. The coach trundles on. Eight days to Wawel.
Marszowski breaks the silence. "You're marked, son. No doubt in my mind."
"I never knew you to take divine signs so seriously."
"I didn't." He takes a big, steadying gulp of wine. You decide it's a good idea and follow suit.
But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never be more athirst: but the water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water, springing up into everlasting life.
The crisp bite of the drink is fading in your mouth, reminding you of the tart film left by raspberries. A sensation from a long time ago, when things made sense and came easily. Marszowski bows his head; you fear he's nearly beside himself. He bounces one leg at speed.
You begin anew: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…
So little time to prepare, and then it is simply upon you.
- Location
- United States
finally staszek gets a monologue!
the realest of the real will know what's so special about the wine-knight
also @Sertorius let's hear what I got wrong lol
the realest of the real will know what's so special about the wine-knight
also @Sertorius let's hear what I got wrong lol
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[X] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."
Theaxofwar
Definitely not a Bunny Cat in disguise.
- Location
- Standing right behind you
[X] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."
- Location
- Your pantry
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "We'll find a way. A peaceful one. We near-always do."
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Let come what may, then."
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Perhaps we ought to turn inward, make every Litwin our brother."
Sertorius Notes for Part II — 10/31/72
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] "Let come what may, then."
No, no, you've done your homework, everything looks fine and it's a nice read.
Besides the unmarried Anna and Katarzyna (and her Vasa offspring that would gain the throne in time), there are also the fairly forgotten Jadwiga (wife of the deceased Elector of Brandenburg Joachim II Hector, yet they only had daughters) as well as Zofia (wife Henry V of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, childless). I believe due to having no male heirs and becoming Lutheran they weren't taken into consideration, but still should be mentioned for completion's sake (to show, that there are more than only 2 Jagiellons remaining).
Vivente rege (that is, electing a new King while to old one still lives with consent from all parties) was always a sore spot for the nobility. While the future Henrician Articles forbade any new monarch from trying to have a successor elected while he's still alive, it should be noted that this conundrum had its roots with Zygmunt the Old and his son Zygmunt August. Good old pappy made his son in 1522 the Grand Duke of Lithuania during his lifetime and co-ruled with him there (the monarch was much stronger in his native Lithuania, than in Poland). Now this would force the Crownlanders (an informal way of addressing Poles, being from the Crownlands - Crown of the Kingdom of Poland was the official name) - good catch by the way @Rolman , though I struggle if it should be Crownlander or Crownman, but both seem fine - to elect Zygmunt August as their King with the Old's passing if they wanted to maintain the union between the kingdoms. This eventually came to fruition in 1529, when Zygmunt August was elected as King of Poland as well to co-rule with his father. While this would probably still happen if everything went the old-fashioned way, it was the forced hand itself that really infuriated the nobility. After the young lads election, the nobles forced Zygmunt the Old to swear, that all future elections of August's successors would be carried out according to the previously established standards, so that vivente rege would never again appear on the agenda.
Ah yes, I always thought about how to properly translate the term "Mości Książę", a more informal way of addressing a Prince/Duke and much like the more polite Your Serene Highness I find it very elegant and functional as well.
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- Location
- United States
Woo! Woo! No more messy intro scrawls for me!
Appreciate your insight as always! Will threadmark.
[X] "Let come what may, then."
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
By the way, for those wondering why Lithuania ceded lands to Poland, I already made a post about that.
Zygmunt August was the sovereign ruler of the GDL with many royal prerogatives still in place and could do with the land whatever he wanted, so he did.
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