Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] The ladies.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
For this era someone being tolerant of another's beliefs I believe is incredibly rare, and I know commonwealth nobility were always a bit loose with conversions and reconversions but still, being accepted seems not to be a guaranteed thing. Also it seems that the family policy is a good one. Balance the commonwealths south western flank with ties to the empire via a Hapsburg prince, while forcing said prince to guarantee religious liberties for all. Helps us against probable ottoman and Muscovite raids as well. Win win for basically everyone involved.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
For this era someone being tolerant of another's beliefs I believe is incredibly rare, and I know commonwealth nobility were always a bit loose with conversions and reconversions but still, being accepted seems not to be a guaranteed thing. Also it seems that the family policy is a good one. Balance the commonwealths south western flank with ties to the empire via a Hapsburg prince, while forcing said prince to guarantee religious liberties for all. Helps us against probable ottoman and Muscovite raids as well. Win win for basically everyone involved.
[X] Ready to fight for the family.
[X] The rakes.
UGH I wanna have the ability to save scum so freaking bad
[X] The rakes.
UGH I wanna have the ability to save scum so freaking bad
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The spiritual.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
- Location
- Reno
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] The temporal.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
[X] The spiritual.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
[X] Ready to fight for the Liberty.
IV. November 30, 1572-January 6, 1573. Kraków to Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
The occasion for this dance is the coming of Advent Sunday. Things are bound to get serious both spiritually and secularly come wintertime, and the unspoken energy of the court seems to cry out: enjoy it while it lasts!
So that is the plan. You find yourself a pinch nervous, trying to settle down with Sir Marszowski with that fine medicine known as heated wine. "So we're a little girl-crazy, lord prince?" he asks with a grin.
"Oh, come now. It's just that in Paris –"
"Yes, yes," says Sir Marszowski, reaching across the table to poke you under the ribs. "You were just so repressed in Paris for want of preventing scandals, no good matches, yes-yes."
"But I'm serious!" you groan, unable to distinguish blushing from the warmth of drink. "It just… It wasn't even an option."
"No whores?"
"What? No!"
"Wow, ah, alright," he seems genuinely amazed. "Perhaps the first ever. A more honorable prince than I'd be," laughs Sir Marszowski. "Thank God you've at least danced with a lady– you have, haven't you?" You roll your eyes. "Though the rash on my back–"
You know what that could mean. You cannot lose another parent. The fun in your system evaporates; you feel sobered up and beyond that.
"It's alright! It's alright!" says the aging knight, his face alight now with a mirrored worry. "It's probably just the small pox; the pox that is small I mean, not small– you understand – it hasn't gotten worse for a year or two and if it ends up being the Italian or French pox or whatever it may be–"
Your face is buried in your hands and you speak through them. "Sir Marszowski, by all the Saints…"
"Lord prince, they've got treatments for it! Good ones. I reckon I'm fine and if I'm not fine I reckon I'll be. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He refills your goblet. "Come on, drink, drink, lord prince. It dries up the black bile, this is a night for sanguinity."
"I'm not going– I'm going to be thinking about this all night now." You lean back in your chair and sag.
Marszowski tries to engage with you through the earmuffs of your racing mind. "Hey-hey-hey, lord prince," he starts snapping in your face. "Lord prince!"
You can't ever really remember getting angry at old Marszowski but: "What!"
"I'm sorry. Truly. You know I've been wounded in eight places, right?" You look up at him and sigh. "And survived infection twice."
You sigh again and realize what a fool you're being. You're a prince, by God. "I'm sorry I'm acting like a child."
"Fear is a childish thing, and you're right to fear," he says, leaning close and shaking your shoulder with his once-snapping, extended hand. "Were my old man to tell me that, I'd be fearful too. Even at your age. But are you a child?"
"No."
"Then you must rid yourself of childish things!" His brows are knit as if he's frustrated but his eyes and mouth smile. "Except for play, of course," he chuckles. "Now, would you like to talk about the fine ladies attending tonight?"
You'll have to make an effort. You reverse your slump. "Fine."
"Well – you're alright?"
"I said I'm fine."
"Well enough then. It's that– well, you're a bit late, is the problem. The older sisters are married and the younger ones aren't women yet."
"Generationes," you muse, "problemata est," working to quiet the sting of panic and fearful anger still in you. "Hm. Do you have names?"
"Not really, no." He chuckles. "I much prefer women my own age; you'll understand someday. But, I mean – Chodkiewicz, Sieniawski, Tarnowski girls are here. I think a Prussian or Livonian or two or some such, some Rosjanki from down south, from our rightful voivodeships."
Now Marszowski himself is looking a little sober. "Lad, I know you want to try at a little love story – and it's happened, it's true – but… May I give you some frank advice, lord prince?"
You're not ready but you must be. "Go ahead."
"You are a third son, my lord. It is a difficult position. There are only so many estates to go around." He clasps his hands together and flickers his eyes between your gaze and the floor. "So, a good dowry – that's a real consideration. An alliance. Proximity to the Grand Duchy. A family's factional loyalties."
You still feel a bit of brine in your blood, so to speak, and yellow bile you never quite knew you had continues to flow. "Yes, Sir Marszowski, I know all that!"
"Well, I'm sorry, then, lord prince–"
"It's just, that – do you understand how few real friends I've had? People who have really loved me? You, Tatjana, my brothers, I hope Father… In France, everybody was merely an acquaintance or a teacher."
Marszowski closes his half-open mouth. You continue: "So can you blame me for being romantic? Can you blame me for wanting to want someone?"
"I was young once; I understand. And I'm not saying that you ought to coldly calculate," he extends a hand in caution, palm out. "But it's a serious political choice, and for both families. Also lots of arrangements turn into love, anyway. And hey!"
"What?"
"Mistresses! Buying cows and stealing milk and all that?" Marszowski scoffs at your consternation. "You are up-tight, lord prince!"
You make a bid for a shutdown. "Alright, well, what are the dances tonight, lech?"
Sir Marszowski snorts. "Um, the usual. Branles, passamezzo-pavanes, galliards – ah! There's this new one. Can you dance the cascarda?"
"The what?"
"Oh no." That's genuine. "It's a new one – Italian, of course – alright, we need to train you up." He cranes his neck out the window. "Already dark. We've got a few hours? Let's go!"
You are sweaty. You survived practice without coughing to an unattractive extent. You have changed into your feasting duds, but no time for a bath. Indeed, the time has come!
A cascarda is difficult on the body but easy on the mind for a trained dancer – there are only around five steps and most come in repeating, verse-chorus solo-partner format. It's the stages that make it difficult; several rounds of dancing about in circles and figure-eights, interspersed with contactless, mirrored partner dance and openly flirtatious solos. A headspinning dance in more ways than one.
"You should probably be alright," pants Marszowski, sizing you up, "You're tense but you'd probably be anyway, heh." He whips his hair back, sending some sweat flying.
You're shaking your legs and ankles out. "Oh, come on. My first try and coming back from flux no less – not everybody can be you, old timer." You make a face at him.
"You can always marry your cousin." You can see his core tensing up, trying not to laugh. "Sierotka's sister. I'm joking but I'm serious."
"That is gross! That is gross."
"Are you really such a monk you're gonna break out the table of consanguinity and–"
"Oh, go to Hell, Pops!" You laugh in spite of yourself. "I don't care that she's my cousin, I care that she could hardly talk when I last saw her."
"Well, yet again–"
"...You must prepare yourself for the inevitabilities of – yes! I know! I know! Just– that– sometimes I feel like the only person that can see anything!"
"Peasants marry their cousins…"
"...That there's something wrong with the world!"
"...And they don't necessarily love-match all that often…"
"That there's something wrong with its people!"
"...Such things have never changed…"
"Consort with your cousin for money, is what it is! Kill the faithful for Christ!"
Marszowski's teeth flash. "Again?! We're doing this again!" he snaps. "I love you mighty well, lord prince, and, as your subordinate – because I am your lesser, don't forget – I respectfully say that this whining thing– it– makes me sick!"
Has he ever really, truly yelled at you before? And at last now, as a man grown?
"To say you're the only one who sees it!" He shakes his goblet at you, wine spilling onto his hand. "I see it! The monks and nuns – ask them! Ask the suicides and the cripples and lunatics!"
You feel like a child. In the sad, fearful, self-loathing way. Like how you replayed every step you took when you first got to France.
"See it, oh, see what? God passed you over, lad! You! You saw it with your own two eyes."
"I did," you answer limply.
"So maybe all this… All this melancholia! Instead of using it to feel all put-upon, to shy from girls and partying and the little intrigues, to be oh-so-detached, woe-is-me, icon-clutching – the Lord put you here to use it!"
He continues. "That God-damned black bile! It's always been–" he squeezes at an invisible fruit. "Pouring out of you! So different from every other lad I've tutored, from your brothers, even, it's why I love you! But it's making you into a… I didn't raise up a…"
"Please. You need not finish." You are trying not to pout yet feel much younger than your age. "You sound a lot like that French prince, Aleksandar; I ran my mouth with him, too."
"Well, was he right?"
You give a defeated shrug. "Not sure."
Sir Marszowski leans in, clapping his hand on your shoulder with a tender squeeze-and-shake. He smiles without his eyes. "You're right, you know, lord prince. You do see things others don't. Which is why it's paramount you start acting a man and a prince and fast. Too many in your position are harebrained, vicious, or both. Do me the honor of something, and I'll leave you be?"
Out with it. He reads you: "don't ever let me talk down to you again. I should be birched like a naughty page for this. I'm quite literally a servant. By God, you're a prince, lord prince!"
"Now let me dance?"
The old bastard cracks a genuine grin this time around. "Yes. Now I let you dance. And don't fear the lady, fear her face!"
Huh?
Well! Quite the night! But other considerations win the day, the weeks, the months – you'll have to put your pursuits on hold for the time being. You were back on the road soon enough, this time bound for Warszawa, where a trickle of muttering, concerned lords had by now burst open into a torrent – naturally you must follow the flow.
But why this place? You hadn't heard much of it besides knowing it hosts the Sejm. Your entourage headed northeast, running parallel to the half-froze Wisła, through tracts of modest Calvinist churches and clumps of pariah Arians gathered around their hedge-preachers, braving the snow and stone-throwing kids. Indeed, the lands around the royal capital to the east is Firlej-cja, as some would say – Sandomierz and Lublin Voivodeships are the bastions of Crownland Calvinism, nevermind that Lord Firlej prefers Luther.
Warszawa cut a modest yet impressive silhouette as the river led you toward her. Perhaps two thirds of a Kraków and wait wait is that Wawel's tower?
"Yes," says Sir Marszowski.
"What?"
"Zygmunt August built a littler one. The palace, I mean. For the Sejms."
"Hm."
"Yes, like a replica, lord prince." more quietly: "the King may have had the Pox – makes you mad – your aunt dying on him, I don't know."
Next to catch your attention (and cause a spine-tingle) was something highly reminiscent of an army's camp parked beyond the city walls, tents and smokestacks extending for several hundred meters in all directions. The mini-Wawel was already well at capacity; your name provided you and your men with palace quarters, but it was clear that the nitty-gritty lay in the muddy tracks of the Sejm camp below and beyond. After a day's rest, you ventured with Sir Marszowski and some bodyguards out into the mix.
The man with the cannon is an important man indeed. This is true anywhere, anytime, but especially when he's leaning on one. He sizes you and your party up, cocking his head and scratching his big beard.
"Sir," you say with a wave, dipping into a bow as you draw nearer. "Do I speak with the honorable Lord Firlej?"
He rises and returns the bow. "Indeed. And who're you?" he asks, seeming to examine the fineries of your outfit.
"I am the Imperial Prince of Dubinki and Birże, Stanisław Radziwiłł, the third son of the Imperial Prince Mikołaj." Handshakes are exchanged. "I'm here to represent the Grand Duchy and the will of my kinsmen."
"Very good, Your Serene Highness. And I am here to represent my brother Christians, to ensure that they may live as they please." He pats his cannon. "This I will do, or die trying. Law and tradition, decency before God and man's conscience alike – and above all I am for those who have heard the truth of Christ preached through Gospel alone."
He is giving a speech and you've been cowed into the spectator. He is a natural; the long hair to match his beard combines with his burning eyes, pointy nose, and wrinkled face to create a dragon of a man, frills spreading outwards and breathing ash-flecked steam. "You represent what you represent, lord prince, as I represent my arms and my kin and the Crown. Now what I want to know is what you stand for, lord prince, for I have heard you are a young master of religious conviction." He looks around theatrically, spreading his arms out at the camp. "And I've seen no other Radziwiłłowie save this one."
Head-on! No more whining, no more whinging! "You mean one of the Popish ones, sir?"
He nods. "And a Catholic who witnessed that black work in Paris, I'm told, now just what–"
"I believe in the truth, Lord Firlej. I believe that God will forever favor the truth. And that truth will prevail over sword and scepter." You quote the Creed: "I believe in the communion of the Saints, in the existence of one holy and catholic Church as dictated unto Petrus by the Christ. Do you not believe in the truth as you do?"
Lord Firlej looks taken aback before cracking a smile. "Do say more, lord prince."
"There was a philosopher I met one night in Paris by the name of Seigneur Montaigne, sir," you say, "it was a year or two before the Massacre. he had a most interesting thought about the cannibal savages off in the Indies – said he'd write about it someday. A real thinker, comfortable with discomfort, always saying 'well what do I know?'"
You are glad to see the firebrand listening, the tables turned. "I digress. The man-eaters, going about naked and living in their barns of rushes, ignorant completely to God, consorting freely and in open – in their barbarism he saw the law of Plato, for those laws of nature see no land, no man apart."
Firlej hums. You continue: "Never did Cain consume Abel, and never did the Hebrew slay the Samaritan. Yet the Antarctic eats his foeman and the Catholic massacres the Hugues, and some do say that the Parisian murderers consumed the hearts and livers of the dead. Do any of these people cry 'savagery!' at all?"
"I think I read your meaning, lord prince…"
"I find myself at war with barbarism, Lord Firlej. I have seen enough; it is a thing to be exceeded, did we Sarmatians not live in the saddle as a Hun would in Caesar's time?"
"Well! Then you've got me relieved over here, lord prince," chuckles Firlej. "I thought something would have to be amiss; Old Rudy would never send his youngest, reverted son for no reason, I thought. But they put you up in the palace?"
"Well, yes, what's–"
"With all the clergymen, lord prince. I'm a senator-Grand Marshal living in my own tent, lord prince! The Interrex and Hozjusz's representatives, the Nuncio, the bishops and Catholic senators," he angrily exclaims, approaching closer and lowering his voice. He gestures for your respective entourages to back off; you nod in assent. "Lord prince, you see – I was afraid that dread pa of yours sent you here to dismantle the Commonwealth."
Wow. "Most of we Christians thought so," Firlej explains. "Figured one of two things: an agitator to make the land a new France so to install Grand Duke Mikołaj in the chaos, or to invite the Emperor in."
"I am no traitor and I am no wrecker, sir," you say, trying not to bristle. "I am here for peace, for my country, for my family."
Firlej smiles. He reminds you of old Admiral Coligny. "We shall see. You seem right-minded, lord prince. If that be the case, then you ought get to work," says Lord Firlej. "Everybody will listen to a Catholic Radziwiłł, even without a position or true-owned estate to your name." He winces. "No offense, lord prince."
"None taken. God willing, that cannon will gather dust." The two of you laugh – yours somewhat forced.
Marszowski beamed for the rest of the day and literally danced around you in your quarters.
"Lord prince, lord prince!" he kept exclaiming, "that was no woman I saw, no little boy, no melancholic!"
You did feel proud. Rather than fearing him, you began to find yourself itching to spar with Aleksandar, should he be elected. Of course, arguing with a King – well, no, of course you won't. But you realized that you had never quite found yourself fantasizing about a fight before.
Indeed, the time has come for you to play the game, dance the branle, cross swords, and as the Prince Stanisław and not a page or foreign guest.
Though the nightmares blunted your rest, you emerged from your chamber the next day with purpose and clarity. Who are you speaking with first?
[] The Catholic clergy.
They say that a few of them – perhaps two in fifty or so, guesses Firlej – are amenable to an edict of tolerance. The rest would likely never budge. But perhaps if one of their own will listen to you, perhaps they'll listen to him? Your intentions will be considered ambiguous at best by the pro-tolerance camp.
[] The Protestant lords.
Although you're sure Firlej will grapevine it, put the Reformed lords' minds fully at ease and send a message to the Catholics that you are here in favor of an edict. Will ingratiate you to Protestants across the Commonwealth and maybe even some of the Ruthenian Orthodox by osmosis. The priests will surely all but give up on you, though, and the more activist Catholic lords, too.
[] The Catholic lords.
After all, they comprise a majority of attendants and are fiercely divided on the matter. A fellow Catholic and representative of the House of advocating for an edict will surely hold great sway among Crownlander and countryman alike. Socially inoffensive, but a quiet come-out as pro-tolerance will have the (perhaps dampened) expected effects.
[] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.
Ballsy and likely to impress the temporal and spiritual alike should you stick the landing. You haven't done anything like this since Meaux, and you scarcely managed to speak without a trembling voice then. But, given the rumors about you alongside your clout as a Radziwiłł, it will surely have a great effect. Also serves as a general introduction to Rudy's mysterious youngest boy. But loud. Uncomfortably so? It can pay to be mysterious.
So that is the plan. You find yourself a pinch nervous, trying to settle down with Sir Marszowski with that fine medicine known as heated wine. "So we're a little girl-crazy, lord prince?" he asks with a grin.
"Oh, come now. It's just that in Paris –"
"Yes, yes," says Sir Marszowski, reaching across the table to poke you under the ribs. "You were just so repressed in Paris for want of preventing scandals, no good matches, yes-yes."
"But I'm serious!" you groan, unable to distinguish blushing from the warmth of drink. "It just… It wasn't even an option."
"No whores?"
"What? No!"
"Wow, ah, alright," he seems genuinely amazed. "Perhaps the first ever. A more honorable prince than I'd be," laughs Sir Marszowski. "Thank God you've at least danced with a lady– you have, haven't you?" You roll your eyes. "Though the rash on my back–"
You know what that could mean. You cannot lose another parent. The fun in your system evaporates; you feel sobered up and beyond that.
"It's alright! It's alright!" says the aging knight, his face alight now with a mirrored worry. "It's probably just the small pox; the pox that is small I mean, not small– you understand – it hasn't gotten worse for a year or two and if it ends up being the Italian or French pox or whatever it may be–"
Your face is buried in your hands and you speak through them. "Sir Marszowski, by all the Saints…"
"Lord prince, they've got treatments for it! Good ones. I reckon I'm fine and if I'm not fine I reckon I'll be. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He refills your goblet. "Come on, drink, drink, lord prince. It dries up the black bile, this is a night for sanguinity."
"I'm not going– I'm going to be thinking about this all night now." You lean back in your chair and sag.
Marszowski tries to engage with you through the earmuffs of your racing mind. "Hey-hey-hey, lord prince," he starts snapping in your face. "Lord prince!"
You can't ever really remember getting angry at old Marszowski but: "What!"
"I'm sorry. Truly. You know I've been wounded in eight places, right?" You look up at him and sigh. "And survived infection twice."
You sigh again and realize what a fool you're being. You're a prince, by God. "I'm sorry I'm acting like a child."
"Fear is a childish thing, and you're right to fear," he says, leaning close and shaking your shoulder with his once-snapping, extended hand. "Were my old man to tell me that, I'd be fearful too. Even at your age. But are you a child?"
"No."
"Then you must rid yourself of childish things!" His brows are knit as if he's frustrated but his eyes and mouth smile. "Except for play, of course," he chuckles. "Now, would you like to talk about the fine ladies attending tonight?"
You'll have to make an effort. You reverse your slump. "Fine."
"Well – you're alright?"
"I said I'm fine."
"Well enough then. It's that– well, you're a bit late, is the problem. The older sisters are married and the younger ones aren't women yet."
"Generationes," you muse, "problemata est," working to quiet the sting of panic and fearful anger still in you. "Hm. Do you have names?"
"Not really, no." He chuckles. "I much prefer women my own age; you'll understand someday. But, I mean – Chodkiewicz, Sieniawski, Tarnowski girls are here. I think a Prussian or Livonian or two or some such, some Rosjanki from down south, from our rightful voivodeships."
Now Marszowski himself is looking a little sober. "Lad, I know you want to try at a little love story – and it's happened, it's true – but… May I give you some frank advice, lord prince?"
You're not ready but you must be. "Go ahead."
"You are a third son, my lord. It is a difficult position. There are only so many estates to go around." He clasps his hands together and flickers his eyes between your gaze and the floor. "So, a good dowry – that's a real consideration. An alliance. Proximity to the Grand Duchy. A family's factional loyalties."
You still feel a bit of brine in your blood, so to speak, and yellow bile you never quite knew you had continues to flow. "Yes, Sir Marszowski, I know all that!"
"Well, I'm sorry, then, lord prince–"
"It's just, that – do you understand how few real friends I've had? People who have really loved me? You, Tatjana, my brothers, I hope Father… In France, everybody was merely an acquaintance or a teacher."
Marszowski closes his half-open mouth. You continue: "So can you blame me for being romantic? Can you blame me for wanting to want someone?"
"I was young once; I understand. And I'm not saying that you ought to coldly calculate," he extends a hand in caution, palm out. "But it's a serious political choice, and for both families. Also lots of arrangements turn into love, anyway. And hey!"
"What?"
"Mistresses! Buying cows and stealing milk and all that?" Marszowski scoffs at your consternation. "You are up-tight, lord prince!"
You make a bid for a shutdown. "Alright, well, what are the dances tonight, lech?"
Sir Marszowski snorts. "Um, the usual. Branles, passamezzo-pavanes, galliards – ah! There's this new one. Can you dance the cascarda?"
"The what?"
"Oh no." That's genuine. "It's a new one – Italian, of course – alright, we need to train you up." He cranes his neck out the window. "Already dark. We've got a few hours? Let's go!"
You are sweaty. You survived practice without coughing to an unattractive extent. You have changed into your feasting duds, but no time for a bath. Indeed, the time has come!
A cascarda is difficult on the body but easy on the mind for a trained dancer – there are only around five steps and most come in repeating, verse-chorus solo-partner format. It's the stages that make it difficult; several rounds of dancing about in circles and figure-eights, interspersed with contactless, mirrored partner dance and openly flirtatious solos. A headspinning dance in more ways than one.
"You should probably be alright," pants Marszowski, sizing you up, "You're tense but you'd probably be anyway, heh." He whips his hair back, sending some sweat flying.
You're shaking your legs and ankles out. "Oh, come on. My first try and coming back from flux no less – not everybody can be you, old timer." You make a face at him.
"You can always marry your cousin." You can see his core tensing up, trying not to laugh. "Sierotka's sister. I'm joking but I'm serious."
"That is gross! That is gross."
"Are you really such a monk you're gonna break out the table of consanguinity and–"
"Oh, go to Hell, Pops!" You laugh in spite of yourself. "I don't care that she's my cousin, I care that she could hardly talk when I last saw her."
"Well, yet again–"
"...You must prepare yourself for the inevitabilities of – yes! I know! I know! Just– that– sometimes I feel like the only person that can see anything!"
"Peasants marry their cousins…"
"...That there's something wrong with the world!"
"...And they don't necessarily love-match all that often…"
"That there's something wrong with its people!"
"...Such things have never changed…"
"Consort with your cousin for money, is what it is! Kill the faithful for Christ!"
Marszowski's teeth flash. "Again?! We're doing this again!" he snaps. "I love you mighty well, lord prince, and, as your subordinate – because I am your lesser, don't forget – I respectfully say that this whining thing– it– makes me sick!"
Has he ever really, truly yelled at you before? And at last now, as a man grown?
"To say you're the only one who sees it!" He shakes his goblet at you, wine spilling onto his hand. "I see it! The monks and nuns – ask them! Ask the suicides and the cripples and lunatics!"
You feel like a child. In the sad, fearful, self-loathing way. Like how you replayed every step you took when you first got to France.
"See it, oh, see what? God passed you over, lad! You! You saw it with your own two eyes."
"I did," you answer limply.
"So maybe all this… All this melancholia! Instead of using it to feel all put-upon, to shy from girls and partying and the little intrigues, to be oh-so-detached, woe-is-me, icon-clutching – the Lord put you here to use it!"
He continues. "That God-damned black bile! It's always been–" he squeezes at an invisible fruit. "Pouring out of you! So different from every other lad I've tutored, from your brothers, even, it's why I love you! But it's making you into a… I didn't raise up a…"
"Please. You need not finish." You are trying not to pout yet feel much younger than your age. "You sound a lot like that French prince, Aleksandar; I ran my mouth with him, too."
"Well, was he right?"
You give a defeated shrug. "Not sure."
Sir Marszowski leans in, clapping his hand on your shoulder with a tender squeeze-and-shake. He smiles without his eyes. "You're right, you know, lord prince. You do see things others don't. Which is why it's paramount you start acting a man and a prince and fast. Too many in your position are harebrained, vicious, or both. Do me the honor of something, and I'll leave you be?"
Out with it. He reads you: "don't ever let me talk down to you again. I should be birched like a naughty page for this. I'm quite literally a servant. By God, you're a prince, lord prince!"
"Now let me dance?"
The old bastard cracks a genuine grin this time around. "Yes. Now I let you dance. And don't fear the lady, fear her face!"
Huh?
Well! Quite the night! But other considerations win the day, the weeks, the months – you'll have to put your pursuits on hold for the time being. You were back on the road soon enough, this time bound for Warszawa, where a trickle of muttering, concerned lords had by now burst open into a torrent – naturally you must follow the flow.
But why this place? You hadn't heard much of it besides knowing it hosts the Sejm. Your entourage headed northeast, running parallel to the half-froze Wisła, through tracts of modest Calvinist churches and clumps of pariah Arians gathered around their hedge-preachers, braving the snow and stone-throwing kids. Indeed, the lands around the royal capital to the east is Firlej-cja, as some would say – Sandomierz and Lublin Voivodeships are the bastions of Crownland Calvinism, nevermind that Lord Firlej prefers Luther.
Warszawa cut a modest yet impressive silhouette as the river led you toward her. Perhaps two thirds of a Kraków and wait wait is that Wawel's tower?
"Yes," says Sir Marszowski.
"What?"
"Zygmunt August built a littler one. The palace, I mean. For the Sejms."
"Hm."
"Yes, like a replica, lord prince." more quietly: "the King may have had the Pox – makes you mad – your aunt dying on him, I don't know."
Next to catch your attention (and cause a spine-tingle) was something highly reminiscent of an army's camp parked beyond the city walls, tents and smokestacks extending for several hundred meters in all directions. The mini-Wawel was already well at capacity; your name provided you and your men with palace quarters, but it was clear that the nitty-gritty lay in the muddy tracks of the Sejm camp below and beyond. After a day's rest, you ventured with Sir Marszowski and some bodyguards out into the mix.
The man with the cannon is an important man indeed. This is true anywhere, anytime, but especially when he's leaning on one. He sizes you and your party up, cocking his head and scratching his big beard.
"Sir," you say with a wave, dipping into a bow as you draw nearer. "Do I speak with the honorable Lord Firlej?"
He rises and returns the bow. "Indeed. And who're you?" he asks, seeming to examine the fineries of your outfit.
"I am the Imperial Prince of Dubinki and Birże, Stanisław Radziwiłł, the third son of the Imperial Prince Mikołaj." Handshakes are exchanged. "I'm here to represent the Grand Duchy and the will of my kinsmen."
"Very good, Your Serene Highness. And I am here to represent my brother Christians, to ensure that they may live as they please." He pats his cannon. "This I will do, or die trying. Law and tradition, decency before God and man's conscience alike – and above all I am for those who have heard the truth of Christ preached through Gospel alone."
He is giving a speech and you've been cowed into the spectator. He is a natural; the long hair to match his beard combines with his burning eyes, pointy nose, and wrinkled face to create a dragon of a man, frills spreading outwards and breathing ash-flecked steam. "You represent what you represent, lord prince, as I represent my arms and my kin and the Crown. Now what I want to know is what you stand for, lord prince, for I have heard you are a young master of religious conviction." He looks around theatrically, spreading his arms out at the camp. "And I've seen no other Radziwiłłowie save this one."
Head-on! No more whining, no more whinging! "You mean one of the Popish ones, sir?"
He nods. "And a Catholic who witnessed that black work in Paris, I'm told, now just what–"
"I believe in the truth, Lord Firlej. I believe that God will forever favor the truth. And that truth will prevail over sword and scepter." You quote the Creed: "I believe in the communion of the Saints, in the existence of one holy and catholic Church as dictated unto Petrus by the Christ. Do you not believe in the truth as you do?"
Lord Firlej looks taken aback before cracking a smile. "Do say more, lord prince."
"There was a philosopher I met one night in Paris by the name of Seigneur Montaigne, sir," you say, "it was a year or two before the Massacre. he had a most interesting thought about the cannibal savages off in the Indies – said he'd write about it someday. A real thinker, comfortable with discomfort, always saying 'well what do I know?'"
You are glad to see the firebrand listening, the tables turned. "I digress. The man-eaters, going about naked and living in their barns of rushes, ignorant completely to God, consorting freely and in open – in their barbarism he saw the law of Plato, for those laws of nature see no land, no man apart."
Firlej hums. You continue: "Never did Cain consume Abel, and never did the Hebrew slay the Samaritan. Yet the Antarctic eats his foeman and the Catholic massacres the Hugues, and some do say that the Parisian murderers consumed the hearts and livers of the dead. Do any of these people cry 'savagery!' at all?"
"I think I read your meaning, lord prince…"
"I find myself at war with barbarism, Lord Firlej. I have seen enough; it is a thing to be exceeded, did we Sarmatians not live in the saddle as a Hun would in Caesar's time?"
"Well! Then you've got me relieved over here, lord prince," chuckles Firlej. "I thought something would have to be amiss; Old Rudy would never send his youngest, reverted son for no reason, I thought. But they put you up in the palace?"
"Well, yes, what's–"
"With all the clergymen, lord prince. I'm a senator-Grand Marshal living in my own tent, lord prince! The Interrex and Hozjusz's representatives, the Nuncio, the bishops and Catholic senators," he angrily exclaims, approaching closer and lowering his voice. He gestures for your respective entourages to back off; you nod in assent. "Lord prince, you see – I was afraid that dread pa of yours sent you here to dismantle the Commonwealth."
Wow. "Most of we Christians thought so," Firlej explains. "Figured one of two things: an agitator to make the land a new France so to install Grand Duke Mikołaj in the chaos, or to invite the Emperor in."
"I am no traitor and I am no wrecker, sir," you say, trying not to bristle. "I am here for peace, for my country, for my family."
Firlej smiles. He reminds you of old Admiral Coligny. "We shall see. You seem right-minded, lord prince. If that be the case, then you ought get to work," says Lord Firlej. "Everybody will listen to a Catholic Radziwiłł, even without a position or true-owned estate to your name." He winces. "No offense, lord prince."
"None taken. God willing, that cannon will gather dust." The two of you laugh – yours somewhat forced.
Marszowski beamed for the rest of the day and literally danced around you in your quarters.
"Lord prince, lord prince!" he kept exclaiming, "that was no woman I saw, no little boy, no melancholic!"
You did feel proud. Rather than fearing him, you began to find yourself itching to spar with Aleksandar, should he be elected. Of course, arguing with a King – well, no, of course you won't. But you realized that you had never quite found yourself fantasizing about a fight before.
Indeed, the time has come for you to play the game, dance the branle, cross swords, and as the Prince Stanisław and not a page or foreign guest.
Though the nightmares blunted your rest, you emerged from your chamber the next day with purpose and clarity. Who are you speaking with first?
[] The Catholic clergy.
They say that a few of them – perhaps two in fifty or so, guesses Firlej – are amenable to an edict of tolerance. The rest would likely never budge. But perhaps if one of their own will listen to you, perhaps they'll listen to him? Your intentions will be considered ambiguous at best by the pro-tolerance camp.
[] The Protestant lords.
Although you're sure Firlej will grapevine it, put the Reformed lords' minds fully at ease and send a message to the Catholics that you are here in favor of an edict. Will ingratiate you to Protestants across the Commonwealth and maybe even some of the Ruthenian Orthodox by osmosis. The priests will surely all but give up on you, though, and the more activist Catholic lords, too.
[] The Catholic lords.
After all, they comprise a majority of attendants and are fiercely divided on the matter. A fellow Catholic and representative of the House of advocating for an edict will surely hold great sway among Crownlander and countryman alike. Socially inoffensive, but a quiet come-out as pro-tolerance will have the (perhaps dampened) expected effects.
[] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.
Ballsy and likely to impress the temporal and spiritual alike should you stick the landing. You haven't done anything like this since Meaux, and you scarcely managed to speak without a trembling voice then. But, given the rumors about you alongside your clout as a Radziwiłł, it will surely have a great effect. Also serves as a general introduction to Rudy's mysterious youngest boy. But loud. Uncomfortably so? It can pay to be mysterious.
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"Totus Floreo!" Pt. I. November 30, 1572. Wawel Palace, Polish Crownlands
- Location
- United States
For some reason you're fiddling with your rosary under the table.
Women are strange. The Mother gave birth to the salvation of the world, yet would she have been as susceptible to superstition, to quackery and to diabolic possession? If those German bishops aren't just being hysterical, that is. You grin at yourself for the potential for such irony.
No, the average one is a mere parody of Maria, just as even the most faithful men, even the Saints, can only hope to clumsily imitate Christ.
Yet they are not completely divorced from She, you think: from whom may we expect to find peacemakers in village and palace alike, to truly uphold harmony, mending ties as she mends clothes. Who is it that puts herself through the trial of birth for the sake of God's commandment and her husband's fortune, what man offers such kindness and deference to his master save for those willing to die? You reckon there may be more good women than good men on this earth.
This is what you've heard, at least. What mother did you ever know besides Our Lady? The Queen Mother in France is a living, breathing clarion call: every lust and vanity they find themselves quickly overtaken by, driven to rages and melancholia over trifles. Just as she may imbue a child with vigor and wits through right conduct she may too produce a dullard or nothing at all through sin and lack of care. In the management of money they are frivolous, and she may quickly turn her sensitivities to the service of deceit and other sins and treacheries.
A woman is by no means dumber than a man, which is the problem, the source of her danger: she is of iron like a man yet on the chain she is a weak link. A broken chain is a weapon. Demon and devilish men alike know who to target. You begin to understand Marszowski's quip. It was she who masterminded the Massacre, that Italian, it had to be! Her and her preening son.
Which is why you're afraid she's going to clap you in her irons. If a man may find himself looking upon a woman again and again it is as if he multiplies himself into another copy-suitor. And everybody knows that a woman surrounded by looks may well serve as an unlocked gate to Hell. And worse yet, she keeps glancing back!
She's down on the far end of the long feasting table, so you reckon it can't be mere accident. It's gotten so bad you've been forgetting to mingle with your fellow lords, and you've only introduced yourself to a few less-consequential ones.
As the Royal Pantler wraps up his Catalog of Dishes, you lean over to your neighbor: "who's the one with the blue embroidery and the red cap?" you ask.
He squints and cranes his neck. "Mmm, that one?" You nod. "Oh, yes, she's pretty, but I've got no clue who her father is."
Only one way to find out. The wine allows you to beeline toward her when the time for dancing comes, and you attempt to speak with poise despite your half-numb lips. "My lady, may you honor me with a dance?"
She's about your age or slightly younger and sweeps a blond lock back under her headscarf; with her arms behind her back holding them bunched, her felt cape and fur cloak reveal a skinny little thing in an embroidered dress – not displeasing, though. Good teeth and full lips, you quickly notice, and about six inches shorter than you. You did not imagine her having brown eyes, which in their size could be as fierce as they could be doe-y. The rest of her features are rather soft save for some high cheekbones.
Her face flashes with surprise and her companions giggle. She looks you up and down with the tiniest knitting of her brow, but then she smiles: "you would do me the honor, my lord."
Her hard consonants tell you right away she must be Ruskaja. You switch into her tongue, using the lordly register rather than Tatjana's, may she sleep in Jesus: "then let us waste no time," you say, eliciting (dainty) howls from her ladies-in-waiting, who all start murmuring among themselves in Rosyjski. You catch "rich" and "charmer" and the wine makes you feel like the Goddamned cock of the walk. Ready!
You head to the dancefloor. The music starts up; it's a branle. You mimic a dance-proposal, removing your cap, and she extends her hand and it feels like someone just kicked you in the head. You hesitate – say something! – you can't say anything – but you do it. She just smiles and fails to meet your eyes. You can't tell if she can tell.
You move with the other couples into a circle. In this initial shuffle, you take advantage of the lack of eye contact. You stick to Rosyjski: "Are you nervous, my lady?"
"Me, my lord? Not particularly. Should I be nervous, my lord?" you can from your peripheral that she's turned her head to you.
"Heh. Maybe."
"Are you nervous, my lord?"
That's rhetorical, come now. Why lie? "Yes."
"Then why should I be nervous, my lord?"
That I've never really danced with a woman before to try and say something– "it's a secret."
"It's a secret, my lord?"
"Yes, my lady."
The circle breaks and you dance around each other, wagging your fingers and clapping on-beat. Your lungs are holding up thus far. "Pray I learn of your secret tonight, my lord?" She seems increasingly intrigued, wearing a permanent grin and tilting her chin up ever so slightly.
Gut-drop. "Hm, um, ah, I'm not sure, my lady."
"Perchance would the secret be your name and title, my lord?" she cocks her eyebrows as the circle reforms.
You look straight ahead as you realize the weight of such a revelation. "No, that's not my secret, my lady, I'm an open book there, heh." Don't worry so much about your station. "I am the Imperial Prince of Dubingiya and Birzhai, Stanislav Radzivil."
There's a brief hesitation before she answers. "I apologize, my lord, but – I thought there were only two?"
"I was in France studying til, oh, October? I've found my brothers to have made names for themselves."
She tuts as the circle breaks for another pass. "Ah! You do look like them, my lord."
Hopefully that's a good thing. "And now I– eh, well, you're keeping a secret, too, no? My lady."
"No secrets with me, my lord. My father's the Boyar Pavl Sapeg, of the arms of the Lis."
Marszowski has mentioned the name. You wrack your brain: from around Podlaskie – or is it Witebsk? – stalwart friends of the family, rather inconsequential on the whole.
"My cousin spent his page years at your uncle's, in fact, my lord," she adds.
The introductions break the wall down somewhat as the two of you move from dance to dance. More wine in between helps, too. You try to remain chaste despite glances of stocking when she lifts her dress to hop about and, intimidatingly, display near-Marszowskian footwork. She's probably in better shape than you! The conversation ebbs – mainly banal stuff about family members, Lithuania, the increasing wintriness, the political situation. And it turns out she's smart, too! Joking about electing "Tsar" Ivan and whatnot, how she'd love to learn Greek someday, how she's torn between Kalvin and the Pravoslav'ya.
It's intimidating. But alluring. You are listening to none of the advice. You feel like you're in one of those Netherlandish paintings where everything's topsy-turvy.
Only after the tourdion in a triple dance do you let it out. You're facing each other kicking out the galliard. "I'm ready to tell you my secret, my lady."
"Oh really, my lord?"
"I've only ever danced with a lady once or twice."
She lets out an unladylike guffaw and claps once. "You're a monk, my lord!" She smiles broadly. "But then you honor me so!" you dance a parallel approach with her as if tilting jousters.
"I saw you down the table–"
"As I saw you–"
And the knights pass each other! You dance a circle around each other, backs turned. You can't see her for a few seconds and miss her already. "And I thought," she says, as the revolution completes itself and the footwork starts anew. She's panting a bit. "I thought – I sure do hope that handsome fellow in the rich clothes comes and finds me for a dance."
Your heart tumbles like an acrobat, yet you're at the point of trying to stay cool. "Ah, so you only like me 'cause I'm a Radzivil?"
"No!" she holds back a laugh. "Well, it helps…"
You two share the joke, even as it rings in your ears somewhat. Is she really to be trusted?
The time for the volta is here and you realize what that means. "Still afraid to touch me, my lord?" she asks, as you dance sliding circles around each other. You swallow and feel your face burn. It shifts into the chase segment – she slows down and you speed up. She watches you with her big eyes over her shoulder. She lets you catch up and you link arms.
"You're still keeping a secret from me, Lady Sapega," you say, now unafraid to look her in the eye.
"And what may–"
Wait! It's here! You grab each other's arms at about the elbow and you begin to boost her jumps, raising her over your head. But then… You must place a knee under her seat, so as to leverage the jumps to climactic heights. You do so without thinking and only realize after the dance that, as you still hold hands – Ay, by God! Her seat!
As you drop down for the final bow-and-curtsy, you don't stop holding her hand. "I still don't know your Christian name, my lady," you say.
"Maryna."
Women are strange. The Mother gave birth to the salvation of the world, yet would she have been as susceptible to superstition, to quackery and to diabolic possession? If those German bishops aren't just being hysterical, that is. You grin at yourself for the potential for such irony.
No, the average one is a mere parody of Maria, just as even the most faithful men, even the Saints, can only hope to clumsily imitate Christ.
Yet they are not completely divorced from She, you think: from whom may we expect to find peacemakers in village and palace alike, to truly uphold harmony, mending ties as she mends clothes. Who is it that puts herself through the trial of birth for the sake of God's commandment and her husband's fortune, what man offers such kindness and deference to his master save for those willing to die? You reckon there may be more good women than good men on this earth.
This is what you've heard, at least. What mother did you ever know besides Our Lady? The Queen Mother in France is a living, breathing clarion call: every lust and vanity they find themselves quickly overtaken by, driven to rages and melancholia over trifles. Just as she may imbue a child with vigor and wits through right conduct she may too produce a dullard or nothing at all through sin and lack of care. In the management of money they are frivolous, and she may quickly turn her sensitivities to the service of deceit and other sins and treacheries.
A woman is by no means dumber than a man, which is the problem, the source of her danger: she is of iron like a man yet on the chain she is a weak link. A broken chain is a weapon. Demon and devilish men alike know who to target. You begin to understand Marszowski's quip. It was she who masterminded the Massacre, that Italian, it had to be! Her and her preening son.
Which is why you're afraid she's going to clap you in her irons. If a man may find himself looking upon a woman again and again it is as if he multiplies himself into another copy-suitor. And everybody knows that a woman surrounded by looks may well serve as an unlocked gate to Hell. And worse yet, she keeps glancing back!
She's down on the far end of the long feasting table, so you reckon it can't be mere accident. It's gotten so bad you've been forgetting to mingle with your fellow lords, and you've only introduced yourself to a few less-consequential ones.
As the Royal Pantler wraps up his Catalog of Dishes, you lean over to your neighbor: "who's the one with the blue embroidery and the red cap?" you ask.
He squints and cranes his neck. "Mmm, that one?" You nod. "Oh, yes, she's pretty, but I've got no clue who her father is."
Only one way to find out. The wine allows you to beeline toward her when the time for dancing comes, and you attempt to speak with poise despite your half-numb lips. "My lady, may you honor me with a dance?"
She's about your age or slightly younger and sweeps a blond lock back under her headscarf; with her arms behind her back holding them bunched, her felt cape and fur cloak reveal a skinny little thing in an embroidered dress – not displeasing, though. Good teeth and full lips, you quickly notice, and about six inches shorter than you. You did not imagine her having brown eyes, which in their size could be as fierce as they could be doe-y. The rest of her features are rather soft save for some high cheekbones.
Her face flashes with surprise and her companions giggle. She looks you up and down with the tiniest knitting of her brow, but then she smiles: "you would do me the honor, my lord."
Her hard consonants tell you right away she must be Ruskaja. You switch into her tongue, using the lordly register rather than Tatjana's, may she sleep in Jesus: "then let us waste no time," you say, eliciting (dainty) howls from her ladies-in-waiting, who all start murmuring among themselves in Rosyjski. You catch "rich" and "charmer" and the wine makes you feel like the Goddamned cock of the walk. Ready!
You head to the dancefloor. The music starts up; it's a branle. You mimic a dance-proposal, removing your cap, and she extends her hand and it feels like someone just kicked you in the head. You hesitate – say something! – you can't say anything – but you do it. She just smiles and fails to meet your eyes. You can't tell if she can tell.
You move with the other couples into a circle. In this initial shuffle, you take advantage of the lack of eye contact. You stick to Rosyjski: "Are you nervous, my lady?"
"Me, my lord? Not particularly. Should I be nervous, my lord?" you can from your peripheral that she's turned her head to you.
"Heh. Maybe."
"Are you nervous, my lord?"
That's rhetorical, come now. Why lie? "Yes."
"Then why should I be nervous, my lord?"
That I've never really danced with a woman before to try and say something– "it's a secret."
"It's a secret, my lord?"
"Yes, my lady."
The circle breaks and you dance around each other, wagging your fingers and clapping on-beat. Your lungs are holding up thus far. "Pray I learn of your secret tonight, my lord?" She seems increasingly intrigued, wearing a permanent grin and tilting her chin up ever so slightly.
Gut-drop. "Hm, um, ah, I'm not sure, my lady."
"Perchance would the secret be your name and title, my lord?" she cocks her eyebrows as the circle reforms.
You look straight ahead as you realize the weight of such a revelation. "No, that's not my secret, my lady, I'm an open book there, heh." Don't worry so much about your station. "I am the Imperial Prince of Dubingiya and Birzhai, Stanislav Radzivil."
There's a brief hesitation before she answers. "I apologize, my lord, but – I thought there were only two?"
"I was in France studying til, oh, October? I've found my brothers to have made names for themselves."
She tuts as the circle breaks for another pass. "Ah! You do look like them, my lord."
Hopefully that's a good thing. "And now I– eh, well, you're keeping a secret, too, no? My lady."
"No secrets with me, my lord. My father's the Boyar Pavl Sapeg, of the arms of the Lis."
Marszowski has mentioned the name. You wrack your brain: from around Podlaskie – or is it Witebsk? – stalwart friends of the family, rather inconsequential on the whole.
"My cousin spent his page years at your uncle's, in fact, my lord," she adds.
The introductions break the wall down somewhat as the two of you move from dance to dance. More wine in between helps, too. You try to remain chaste despite glances of stocking when she lifts her dress to hop about and, intimidatingly, display near-Marszowskian footwork. She's probably in better shape than you! The conversation ebbs – mainly banal stuff about family members, Lithuania, the increasing wintriness, the political situation. And it turns out she's smart, too! Joking about electing "Tsar" Ivan and whatnot, how she'd love to learn Greek someday, how she's torn between Kalvin and the Pravoslav'ya.
It's intimidating. But alluring. You are listening to none of the advice. You feel like you're in one of those Netherlandish paintings where everything's topsy-turvy.
Only after the tourdion in a triple dance do you let it out. You're facing each other kicking out the galliard. "I'm ready to tell you my secret, my lady."
"Oh really, my lord?"
"I've only ever danced with a lady once or twice."
She lets out an unladylike guffaw and claps once. "You're a monk, my lord!" She smiles broadly. "But then you honor me so!" you dance a parallel approach with her as if tilting jousters.
"I saw you down the table–"
"As I saw you–"
And the knights pass each other! You dance a circle around each other, backs turned. You can't see her for a few seconds and miss her already. "And I thought," she says, as the revolution completes itself and the footwork starts anew. She's panting a bit. "I thought – I sure do hope that handsome fellow in the rich clothes comes and finds me for a dance."
Your heart tumbles like an acrobat, yet you're at the point of trying to stay cool. "Ah, so you only like me 'cause I'm a Radzivil?"
"No!" she holds back a laugh. "Well, it helps…"
You two share the joke, even as it rings in your ears somewhat. Is she really to be trusted?
The time for the volta is here and you realize what that means. "Still afraid to touch me, my lord?" she asks, as you dance sliding circles around each other. You swallow and feel your face burn. It shifts into the chase segment – she slows down and you speed up. She watches you with her big eyes over her shoulder. She lets you catch up and you link arms.
"You're still keeping a secret from me, Lady Sapega," you say, now unafraid to look her in the eye.
"And what may–"
Wait! It's here! You grab each other's arms at about the elbow and you begin to boost her jumps, raising her over your head. But then… You must place a knee under her seat, so as to leverage the jumps to climactic heights. You do so without thinking and only realize after the dance that, as you still hold hands – Ay, by God! Her seat!
As you drop down for the final bow-and-curtsy, you don't stop holding her hand. "I still don't know your Christian name, my lady," you say.
"Maryna."
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Astra Myst
Do you want a wish?
- Location
- Milky Way Galaxy
[X] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.
A Note on Historicity of Marriage Prospects
- Location
- United States
Somewhat obviously, the sexist-ass chroniclers of the period (or at least everybody I combed through) paid very little mind to women until their marriage, with the exception of those from the most prominent families. With that in mind, most historical women of your generation only crop up when already married. Soooooooooooo -- no they're not. This goes for Mariana (who, for example, already would've had a toddler-aged child OTL) and any potential fine ladies down the line.
Also, while I'm here, if you wanted to get a grip on Renaissance anxieties about the purity and power of women, zoom in on Bosch's Garden and see what you see!
Also, while I'm here, if you wanted to get a grip on Renaissance anxieties about the purity and power of women, zoom in on Bosch's Garden and see what you see!
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Rather, to announce: attempt to deliver a speech before the assembled Sejm.
Is good to see this story back!
Is good to see this story back!