Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
Nowadays, yes, but back then it was amongst the various Latinizations of Rus', including Ruthenia, Russia, Ruscia, Ruzzia.
And modern Russia's self-name, Rossiya, is based on the translation of Ρωσιας as popularized by Kyivan clergy and nobility. To the point that the Tsar would write letters to Khmelnytsky styling as "of all Rus'", and Khmel would ask "Here in Rossiya we have a tradition of nobility getting payment for their service, will the Lord of Moscow guarantee it?"
VIII-II. April 8-15, 1573. Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
"I tell the truth," you clear your throat. "I tell the truth, my lord, that a Habsburg on the throne would bring near-perpetual peace, or at least victory in any war."
"Hmph, until he brings his Jesuits in and–"
"Forgive me, my lord, but – another truth: I would be the first to form a rokosz were he ever to violate the Confederacy," you say, trying to settle into your rhetorician role.
"And surely we would then stand together; in my mind, though, I see nothing good in nominating a man with even a whiff of true Popery about him." Firlej scowls through his great gray beard. "The Frenchman's a bastard, to be sure, but he has next to no power here. No armies on the border, Your Serene Highness."
"A confessional issue would surely not draw the Empire into war against us, my lord, for by our own law would we have our King sign, and by law his efforts may be stopped. And by us."
"Law has not stopped them before, lord prince," rumbles Lord Firlej. "Your Serene Highness most certainly knows that."
"The Emperor and his kind are different, my lord." Says who?
"Says who, Your Serene Highness?"
"Says the Emperor's clause of cuius regio. The similarities are striking."
That second part is exaggeration, but you've made the old bear stumble! He stands, stony-faced, with his hands on his hips. "What is it you were saying about 'peace,' Your Serene Highness?"
Victory! A small one. "The Swede cannot face the Empire, the Tatar and Turk cannot face us were we combined – the men we'd save for Livonia, where many a good Protestant found himself massacred by Muscovites."
He frowned at 'Protestant;' it was subtle but you caught it, and can't divine its source. "That sounds very good. And I'm being sincere, Your Serene Highness. But I am much more concerned for us," he says, gesturing in a sweeping motion at the whole Sejm camp. "We import a man raised without the Liberty, with armies that could quick-march to Kraków in a week? And then onwards into my estates, full of the Christians they so despise? What worse invaders could we face?"
"I simply do not see the risk in that, my lord." You try for a counter. "All the realm would be united in rebellion if it came to it, and the Emperor alone cannot stand against us all."
"So much for your humanism, then, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "The threat of invasion or of civil war for the sake of a meager land grab." Some disrespect! "You know I find you to be a man of good and pious character – and should you not feel dishonored, let us remain friends – but I shall never agree to a Habsburg on the throne. Tell that to your father, Your Serene Highness."
Lord Firlej does, however, raise a finger: "but I will back keeping the Frenchman on a very short leash, Your Serene Highness. That is for certain; I will stand with your people always."
Rebuked and rebuffed yet perhaps reassured, the conversation is over.
You're not sure whether or not to take it personally, but you know that it's a certainty that the news of the meeting spread fast. Curses.
And now, what to do? The situation is only worsening: the French envoy Montluc delivered a smashing speech full of concessions, reassurances, and high-powered rhetoric, delivered in Latin and impressive Polish. Despite the heckling of your supporters and the Protestants, the speech was cheered through all the way. Your minority party seems to shrink further still by the day.
On the other hand, a flamboyant prank involving the nomination of a local lord, layabout, and dirt farmer deals a deathblow to the Piast camp – many of the lordlings move toward various pro-French subfactions, but a decent few remain undecided.
Conferring with your father, brother, and cousin – Krzysztof now only a few days away – a decision is made to…
[] Go to the lordlings.
Try to persuade anybody left among the lesser nobility with promises of the Imperial splendor to be gained. It's a crude argument for crude men, you figure, but one that will certainly perk up more than a few of their ears. And they tend to move as a swarm of sparrows, or flock of geese. There could be a chance, though the legalistically-minded among them will probably balk, as could their irreligious, pragmatic Protestant section.
[] Concede.
The Imperial faction is now limited to your family and their loyalists and a majority of the Catholic clergy. The nobility is rapidly rallying around the versatile Aleksandar as Protestant morale fades. It is better to cut our losses and work within the system than engender political hatred or even physical danger for our being holdouts. There is always next election, and the chance of the Frenchman having to abdicate due to struggles in his homeland is non-zero.
[] Confer with the Catholic clergy.
Meet with the Primate-Archbishop to discuss next moves and the consideration of an appeal to the small – but noticeable – amount of hardline Catholic nobles. The more voices on the floor the better. Will particularly anger Firlej and the Protestants.
[] Send for (more) Imperial diplomats – force a delaying action.
Montluc must be countered with Imperial Montlucs, beyond the little cadre currently at court. Convincing the Emperor should be relatively easy but, in order for them to get here in time, the Sejm's pace must be slowed. This will gain us absolutely no friends – and that's an understatement. However, the arrival of a sizable, official Imperial delegation is a strong and influencing message, a gamble that could just bring back some wind into our sails. The situation may escalate, though.
"Hmph, until he brings his Jesuits in and–"
"Forgive me, my lord, but – another truth: I would be the first to form a rokosz were he ever to violate the Confederacy," you say, trying to settle into your rhetorician role.
"And surely we would then stand together; in my mind, though, I see nothing good in nominating a man with even a whiff of true Popery about him." Firlej scowls through his great gray beard. "The Frenchman's a bastard, to be sure, but he has next to no power here. No armies on the border, Your Serene Highness."
"A confessional issue would surely not draw the Empire into war against us, my lord, for by our own law would we have our King sign, and by law his efforts may be stopped. And by us."
"Law has not stopped them before, lord prince," rumbles Lord Firlej. "Your Serene Highness most certainly knows that."
"The Emperor and his kind are different, my lord." Says who?
"Says who, Your Serene Highness?"
"Says the Emperor's clause of cuius regio. The similarities are striking."
That second part is exaggeration, but you've made the old bear stumble! He stands, stony-faced, with his hands on his hips. "What is it you were saying about 'peace,' Your Serene Highness?"
Victory! A small one. "The Swede cannot face the Empire, the Tatar and Turk cannot face us were we combined – the men we'd save for Livonia, where many a good Protestant found himself massacred by Muscovites."
He frowned at 'Protestant;' it was subtle but you caught it, and can't divine its source. "That sounds very good. And I'm being sincere, Your Serene Highness. But I am much more concerned for us," he says, gesturing in a sweeping motion at the whole Sejm camp. "We import a man raised without the Liberty, with armies that could quick-march to Kraków in a week? And then onwards into my estates, full of the Christians they so despise? What worse invaders could we face?"
"I simply do not see the risk in that, my lord." You try for a counter. "All the realm would be united in rebellion if it came to it, and the Emperor alone cannot stand against us all."
"So much for your humanism, then, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "The threat of invasion or of civil war for the sake of a meager land grab." Some disrespect! "You know I find you to be a man of good and pious character – and should you not feel dishonored, let us remain friends – but I shall never agree to a Habsburg on the throne. Tell that to your father, Your Serene Highness."
Lord Firlej does, however, raise a finger: "but I will back keeping the Frenchman on a very short leash, Your Serene Highness. That is for certain; I will stand with your people always."
Rebuked and rebuffed yet perhaps reassured, the conversation is over.
You're not sure whether or not to take it personally, but you know that it's a certainty that the news of the meeting spread fast. Curses.
And now, what to do? The situation is only worsening: the French envoy Montluc delivered a smashing speech full of concessions, reassurances, and high-powered rhetoric, delivered in Latin and impressive Polish. Despite the heckling of your supporters and the Protestants, the speech was cheered through all the way. Your minority party seems to shrink further still by the day.
On the other hand, a flamboyant prank involving the nomination of a local lord, layabout, and dirt farmer deals a deathblow to the Piast camp – many of the lordlings move toward various pro-French subfactions, but a decent few remain undecided.
Conferring with your father, brother, and cousin – Krzysztof now only a few days away – a decision is made to…
Note that these are still orders from your Father.
[] Go to the lordlings.
Try to persuade anybody left among the lesser nobility with promises of the Imperial splendor to be gained. It's a crude argument for crude men, you figure, but one that will certainly perk up more than a few of their ears. And they tend to move as a swarm of sparrows, or flock of geese. There could be a chance, though the legalistically-minded among them will probably balk, as could their irreligious, pragmatic Protestant section.
[] Concede.
The Imperial faction is now limited to your family and their loyalists and a majority of the Catholic clergy. The nobility is rapidly rallying around the versatile Aleksandar as Protestant morale fades. It is better to cut our losses and work within the system than engender political hatred or even physical danger for our being holdouts. There is always next election, and the chance of the Frenchman having to abdicate due to struggles in his homeland is non-zero.
[] Confer with the Catholic clergy.
Meet with the Primate-Archbishop to discuss next moves and the consideration of an appeal to the small – but noticeable – amount of hardline Catholic nobles. The more voices on the floor the better. Will particularly anger Firlej and the Protestants.
[] Send for (more) Imperial diplomats – force a delaying action.
Montluc must be countered with Imperial Montlucs, beyond the little cadre currently at court. Convincing the Emperor should be relatively easy but, in order for them to get here in time, the Sejm's pace must be slowed. This will gain us absolutely no friends – and that's an understatement. However, the arrival of a sizable, official Imperial delegation is a strong and influencing message, a gamble that could just bring back some wind into our sails. The situation may escalate, though.
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
Hmm... Well, I don't see much good choices now. Confound that old coot.
Getting Catholic hardliners destroys our reputation, same with the lordlings. The Empire should have, honestly, sent its own diplomats.
I guess there is nothing better to do but concede, as dad suggested in one of the previous updates. Our passion was simply not enough, let's not drag our House's name through the mud in the coming new order. We also underestimated that the Polish voters may simply be pissed off at Germans re: Silesia, Neumark, Pomerania.
[X] Concede.
Getting Catholic hardliners destroys our reputation, same with the lordlings. The Empire should have, honestly, sent its own diplomats.
I guess there is nothing better to do but concede, as dad suggested in one of the previous updates. Our passion was simply not enough, let's not drag our House's name through the mud in the coming new order. We also underestimated that the Polish voters may simply be pissed off at Germans re: Silesia, Neumark, Pomerania.
[X] Concede.
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- Location
- Your pantry
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Quite frankly, Alexandre will probably have to run back to France before ruling a year as in OTL (I sincerely do not believe that we have made big enough waves to change that), which renders this whole thing moot. Best to concede here and let him have his "victory".
[X] Concede.
[X] Concede.
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Ghostdevil
The Devil of Ghosts
- Location
- United States
[X] Concede.
- Location
- United States
It feels wrong to just give up after we've put so much effort into this whole thing ... but what's our end game here? It really just doesn't seem like anybody wants the Emperor, nor does said Emperor seem to be putting in half the effort of the French to win the throne. It's just us standing against the tide for little gain, and I can't see what we could've done otherwise. And at this point, we're just pissing people off for no gain.
Time to call it quits and hope for the best.
I should really do some research on what happened historically.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] Concede.
The Radziwiłłs know when to fold'em. No sense in dying for a last cause, especially if the Emperor himself isn't even trying (since he lacks envoys to fight on his behalf, unlike the French). Better to join the winners, while there is still the chance.
Fun fact: when Henry was elected, Polish envoys sent to Paris to notify him of his success addressed his court in Latin. To their great surprise and consternation, they received no reply, since none of the nobles, Counts and Princes there knew Latin. They had to quickly find somebody who did in order to receive the message, their red faces full of shame because of their lack of education.
But wait, there's more!
While Barons, Counts, Marquises, etc. were forbidden by law, Polish envoys sent to foreign rulers and governments were permitted to style themselves as Counts during their mission in order to raise its prestige (since a titleless noble would be seen as a low ranking diplomat) and to tactfully omit the need to explain, that titles are formally not in use in the Commonwealth.
The Radziwiłłs know when to fold'em. No sense in dying for a last cause, especially if the Emperor himself isn't even trying (since he lacks envoys to fight on his behalf, unlike the French). Better to join the winners, while there is still the chance.
Aye, this is exactly how these two ways of addressing a Prince should be used. While all this Serening might seem strange to our modern eyes, this was how men of substance were addressed back in the day. The high and mighty liked to style themselves above their peers, much like Kings.
Well, well, well...
Fun fact: when Henry was elected, Polish envoys sent to Paris to notify him of his success addressed his court in Latin. To their great surprise and consternation, they received no reply, since none of the nobles, Counts and Princes there knew Latin. They had to quickly find somebody who did in order to receive the message, their red faces full of shame because of their lack of education.
But wait, there's more!
While Barons, Counts, Marquises, etc. were forbidden by law, Polish envoys sent to foreign rulers and governments were permitted to style themselves as Counts during their mission in order to raise its prestige (since a titleless noble would be seen as a low ranking diplomat) and to tactfully omit the need to explain, that titles are formally not in use in the Commonwealth.
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[X] Concede.
VIII-III. April 15-May 20, 1573. Warszawa, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
Tall and strong, he jumps boyishly in consternation, smiling broadly. "Hellfire! I missed out on the fun?"
You draw Krzysztof into a hug. "By God, you're a giant, Brother," you say, looking up at him; he easily exceeds six stopy in height. "And don't worry – it was a lost cause from the start; all we could do was say our piece."
"It involves a lot of ducking, you know," he jokes, breaking the hug and leaning back to take a look at you. "And damn this swamp-Sejm. Huh. You look so much like Mother," he says, a little awestruck. He hardens up again: "heard you haven't been in a real scrape yet, Brother Prince!"
"I was always watching from the camps, sadly." You perk up a little, though. "But I'm looking forward to it! Been reading every book of war I can get my hands on."
He smiles and chuckles. "Well, we'll see if those books can fit in between your plates. I was like you once, though!" he says, beaming at your enthusiasm. "You've got to live it to understand it!"
Septimus sits with his legs crossed. "And may our dear Brother live it soon! Good to see you again, Brother Hetman." His hands are folded but his scarred face is folded up with glee.
"Isn't he stiff? He's like Father," says Krzysztof, mockingly standing stock-straight. "But I'm the better soldier," he teases Septimus.
Your poised eldest brother taps his bardiche mark. "Tell me again some other time, hussar Prince!"
"Ahhhh, we ran down some Muscovite raiders a few weeks back, now that was something! Horse-to-horse."
"And you won, of course?" asks Septimus, leaning forward in his seat.
"We cut a good few of them down and the rest rode off or surrendered. Nobody worth a ransom so we found a nice oak tree and strung the scum up for banditry," he smacks his chest and snorts. "Didn't bury a single one – that's for all the Livonian peasants!"
Everybody laughs – you last. "How about some heated wine, sirs?"
They exclaim in the affirmative.
Indeed, there was not much left to do beside swap stories, trudge through the mud, and drink. The avalanche of support for the Frenchman was unbeatable, and through near-grit teeth you publicly endorsed him as the Sejm took on its tone of ritual unanimity.
Krzysztof was horrified at your recounting of Saint Bartholomew's Day, stammering about the difference between killing and murder, speaking of the equality of souls under God. He implores you, as many others have, to get in the saddle as soon as possible. To, in his words, "wash that harsh taste out of your mouth." He vows that, when war comes again, he'll be the one to show you the ropes.
The assembly meets, day by day, arguments are heard even as all know what's coming. The atmosphere moves from charged to bored; hands rest on chins rather than hilts and pommels.
It is interesting to watch how men make little adjustments to change the world around them. Not in a tangible way, but in their own minds. Your speech was so quickly forgotten by the virtue of a clamor for security, for prestige, on account of rhetoric and by the same way in which fever descends upon men surrounded by the sick.
To fanfare and tossed caps is the Frenchman elected. A furious Lord Firlej threatens to draw out the cannons, but is shouted down and escorted out of the camp nearly at sword-tip. You watched in silence, remaining mindful to hold a neutral expression, yet sent a runner with your regards later that night.
By the start of May, the camp was breaking down, with the duel casualties buried or shipped home as the bishops and senators leave caravan-style through the city gates. It is in this lofty baggage train that you obviously find yourself, quitting your fine accommodations to behold the finely-dyed quilt of tent tops removed to reveal the massive bruise across the field left in its wake.
Spring and Summer were setting in quicker this year, praise God, and the trees and orchards began to bud and blossom as your convoy diverged from your father and brothers'. You were bound for Kodeń with a weighty announcement to make – then onwards to Prince Ostrogski to break the news, too. The lump in your stomach persisted for days as you proceeded down the familiar route from Warszawa to Dubinki via Kodeń.
Downed trees and a bridge collapse led to a detour and nearly a week of lost time. The path grew a bit more remote and, a few days' quick ride from the Sapieha seat, a most interesting thing occurred by the roadside on the southern edges of the great Białowieża wood: with vultures circling above, a lone bison stood obstinate on the drying dirt track, snorting and stomping, only fleeing when pelted with stones. The men joke about stoning royal property being legal without a king. They hide their questions regarding such an omen.
The leaves were beginning to dance, and then came a village.
You draw Krzysztof into a hug. "By God, you're a giant, Brother," you say, looking up at him; he easily exceeds six stopy in height. "And don't worry – it was a lost cause from the start; all we could do was say our piece."
"It involves a lot of ducking, you know," he jokes, breaking the hug and leaning back to take a look at you. "And damn this swamp-Sejm. Huh. You look so much like Mother," he says, a little awestruck. He hardens up again: "heard you haven't been in a real scrape yet, Brother Prince!"
"I was always watching from the camps, sadly." You perk up a little, though. "But I'm looking forward to it! Been reading every book of war I can get my hands on."
He smiles and chuckles. "Well, we'll see if those books can fit in between your plates. I was like you once, though!" he says, beaming at your enthusiasm. "You've got to live it to understand it!"
Septimus sits with his legs crossed. "And may our dear Brother live it soon! Good to see you again, Brother Hetman." His hands are folded but his scarred face is folded up with glee.
"Isn't he stiff? He's like Father," says Krzysztof, mockingly standing stock-straight. "But I'm the better soldier," he teases Septimus.
Your poised eldest brother taps his bardiche mark. "Tell me again some other time, hussar Prince!"
"Ahhhh, we ran down some Muscovite raiders a few weeks back, now that was something! Horse-to-horse."
"And you won, of course?" asks Septimus, leaning forward in his seat.
"We cut a good few of them down and the rest rode off or surrendered. Nobody worth a ransom so we found a nice oak tree and strung the scum up for banditry," he smacks his chest and snorts. "Didn't bury a single one – that's for all the Livonian peasants!"
Everybody laughs – you last. "How about some heated wine, sirs?"
They exclaim in the affirmative.
Indeed, there was not much left to do beside swap stories, trudge through the mud, and drink. The avalanche of support for the Frenchman was unbeatable, and through near-grit teeth you publicly endorsed him as the Sejm took on its tone of ritual unanimity.
Krzysztof was horrified at your recounting of Saint Bartholomew's Day, stammering about the difference between killing and murder, speaking of the equality of souls under God. He implores you, as many others have, to get in the saddle as soon as possible. To, in his words, "wash that harsh taste out of your mouth." He vows that, when war comes again, he'll be the one to show you the ropes.
The assembly meets, day by day, arguments are heard even as all know what's coming. The atmosphere moves from charged to bored; hands rest on chins rather than hilts and pommels.
It is interesting to watch how men make little adjustments to change the world around them. Not in a tangible way, but in their own minds. Your speech was so quickly forgotten by the virtue of a clamor for security, for prestige, on account of rhetoric and by the same way in which fever descends upon men surrounded by the sick.
To fanfare and tossed caps is the Frenchman elected. A furious Lord Firlej threatens to draw out the cannons, but is shouted down and escorted out of the camp nearly at sword-tip. You watched in silence, remaining mindful to hold a neutral expression, yet sent a runner with your regards later that night.
By the start of May, the camp was breaking down, with the duel casualties buried or shipped home as the bishops and senators leave caravan-style through the city gates. It is in this lofty baggage train that you obviously find yourself, quitting your fine accommodations to behold the finely-dyed quilt of tent tops removed to reveal the massive bruise across the field left in its wake.
Spring and Summer were setting in quicker this year, praise God, and the trees and orchards began to bud and blossom as your convoy diverged from your father and brothers'. You were bound for Kodeń with a weighty announcement to make – then onwards to Prince Ostrogski to break the news, too. The lump in your stomach persisted for days as you proceeded down the familiar route from Warszawa to Dubinki via Kodeń.
Downed trees and a bridge collapse led to a detour and nearly a week of lost time. The path grew a bit more remote and, a few days' quick ride from the Sapieha seat, a most interesting thing occurred by the roadside on the southern edges of the great Białowieża wood: with vultures circling above, a lone bison stood obstinate on the drying dirt track, snorting and stomping, only fleeing when pelted with stones. The men joke about stoning royal property being legal without a king. They hide their questions regarding such an omen.
The leaves were beginning to dance, and then came a village.
“Sparking Powder.” Pt. I. May 20, 1573. Białowieża Forest, Crown-Lithuanian Borderlands.
- Location
- United States
The peasant approaches you on his knees, cap in hand, his balding head poking out of the growing barley as he emerges with a downcast face. It's an odd thing to see, and you wonder why he didn't proceed up the little trail leading to his village; it bludgeons to death the tranquility of the great forest, green and grass-scented on the cusp of summer. His knees kick up gravel and a little cloud of dirt as he reaches the road.
Your mind is removed from the decision you must make at Kodeń.
He speaks Polish through a thick accent, drowning out the birds and insects. "My lord, ah, Your Highness, my lord, I come on bended knee to, ah–"
You look down from your horse. "Speak, man."
"Piotr Borkowicz! The Outlaw Pan! He's alive! And if we don't give him all our head of cattle and-and-and–" his voice cracks, "three maidens, God help us, three of our girls, to do, to do–"
"Slow down. Slow down. Who is this 'Sir' Borkowicz?"
"A devil! A bastard! Ain't a soul in his fat body, I'd kill him if I–!"
"Relax!" You can practice raising your voice at peasants, you dimly suppose. "I'm sure all of this is true but who is he? And where?"
"Piotr Borkowicz! He betrayed Master Paweł five years ago and hid out in the woods! Used the strongboxes of gold he stole from Master to raise himself up a little army!" He cannot lower his voice, which cracks on occasion through his panicked stammer. "And–and the Sapieha men came when it happened, God bless those brave men, they killed his men but not the bastard but now he's back! He's back! We thought he ran away. We don't know what to–"
"Easy now, man. Easy," you say, putting out a palm. "We're friends of the Sapiehowie; we can help. Now when's that, uh," you assume he probably doesn't know 'ultimatum'. "Tax of his due?"
"Tonight! We sent Kostya and little Vanya four days ago to Kodeń on the donkeys and God protect them but they're not back yet. What happened to him, o God, they volunteered, we were too… We have… We need the starost's men, but– We have pitchforks, our billhooks, ah, our grainflails, a matchlock and some bows and, but… By God, God help us, they have pistols and swords and horses and…"
You try to speak like old Tatjana, switching to his language, his peasant register. You want to soothe him, and almost try to address him as a child. "Thou wilt be protected, God as my witness," you raise an oath-taking hand. "We know thy Lord, he's a good man, but there be no time to waste; we'll put these brigands in the ground or on the gallows."
"God bless you! God bless you! Glory to God!" The poor man is finally crying.
"We'll take care of this rabble," you tell him. You turn to Marszowski, switching back to Polish. "I said we'll–" a shock runs through you, but you say it: "I said we'll kill the bastards."
"Capture the rest for the executioners," he says, displaying that rarely-seen savagery. "They need the water-cure or the wheel, strappado, I don't know, there's nothing I hate more than bastard traitors who abuse the little people."
"He's a shame to his herb. We'd do his clansmen a favor," you say. You're burning up. "We don't need to deliver him to court, you know, only if we want." You think that may be correct – you're not sure, probably condemned in absentia anyways – but realize that you're a Radziwiłł and this bastard is… Whoever he is. It'll be fine in these lawless times. You've been waiting for something like this. You think. "What do you know about setting ambushes?"
"Not much." Sir Marszowski smirks, looking almost wistful. "I'm a cavalry charge man, lord prince." But he looks over his shoulder. "Have you met van Gistel yet?"
"Van Gistel?"
"Aye, Karol van Gistel, ah, so, you haven't..? Well, he just arrived yesterday at nightfall," he says. "Since you told your father you wanted a captain; I let him rest before an introduction, rode here so fast he needed relief horses." He looks back to your assorted attendants and bodyguards. "Hey, Sir van Gistel, get up here, please!" He turns back to you, quieter. "Netherlandish rebel who wasn't getting paid enough."
Marszowski continues. "He's only been with our infantry since about '71 or so, but all my little birds say he's rock-solid. Led a pike square but we haven't tried him out yet, also with the castle guard; he knows his stuff." Your lieutenant smiles and gives an exaggerated finger-wag. "You don't know your own bodyguards, lord prince?"
The youngish, tall blonde man riding up must have heard that; he dismounts and takes a knee. "Karol van Gistel, Your Serene Highness. For the Family I'll give my life." And speaks perfect Polish!
"Rise, van Gistel," you say, trying to act princely. He obeys. "I'm told you've led men?" you notice he's missing his left ear and a piece of corresponding cheek, and wears a crescent-shaped pin in his Polish-style cap.
"Yes, Your Serene Highness. In the Low Countries and in the Grand Duchy, may the Lord preserve both." Yet the soldier looks bashful. "Well, I haven't had the chance quite yet to have a real formation here, actually, Your Serene Highness."
"Please, sir, tell me why did you come here?"
"I did three years with the geuzen, Your Serene Highness – ah, 'beggars,' is what we called ourselves–"
"Yes, I was in France for years, you know, so I'm quite aware of the Netherlandish war." You scratch your chin, worried about being lied to yet again. "And I know of its barbarism, the tyranny of the Duke. So… Why leave such a noble cause, sir?"
"Well, I didn't want to, Your Serene Highness." He taps the crescent pin. "This is for merit. It says…" he seems tentative for a moment. "There's a motto on it. It says, ah, 'Rather Turkish than Popish, in spite of mass.'"
"You know I'm thick-skinned on such things, sir, worry not. But my question."
"My apologies, Your Serene Highness. I'm of Brabant, you see, and a nobleman. My family had a little estate and between the Pa– Catholic mobs, and, well, what I did – we lost it all." He clears his throat. "Guilt, Your Serene Highness, honest to the Lord. And a man cannot survive comfortably on a rebel Prince's guilder. I fought my way across the Empire in some petty squabbles and now I serve the Family."
He will suffice, perhaps. You point at the serf, still crying, shaking and fidgeting in place. "Did you catch any of what he said?"
"Man's in hysterics, Your Serene Highness."
"Yes. There's a gang of thieves and murderers threatening them," you say, making a sweeping hand at the thatch and wood-shingled roofs a couple hundred łokcie away, across the barley field. Nobody is outside, no smokestacks from their chimneys "They're demanding girls and cattle. They come tonight."
He shakes his head. "The cunts." Hard to read what he really thinks. Mercenaries aren't the most dissimilar, after all.
"Indeed." You sigh. The world is so heavy sometimes. But all this talk of Livonia has brought something out in you, something like the steel of grandfather's jousting plates. You're tired of watching and shaking and crying. "I'm told that you can lead footmen in particular."
"Yes, Your Serene Highness, though it's been a year or so since I've been a genuine colonel." Of course Father would send an untested man. For his untested son.
Hm. But it's all as Marszowski said. "Well, what do you know about setting ambushes?"
Van Gistel cracks a smile. "A good deal, Your Serene Highness. Back during the war, we tended to attack at night. Later on it was open battle, and I could use what I learned fighting the thirds, but, well, in a word – yes, I can set an ambush."
You look at Marszowski; he nods. "Then we need you, sir. And for tonight. The head-count is, what, fifty or so?"
Sir Marszowski squints. "Fifty-three, Your Serene Highness; Sirs Nowicki and Hejnisz are the ones with flux back at Kodeń. Twenty carbines and everybody's got a sword and dagger and near-everyone a horse. Couple of ceremonial halberds we could sharpen up in a pinch." He lowers his voice. "Some of the lads are fifteen, sixteen, though. Assistants. They can fight but aren't tested." Ah, like me.
"Do you reckon we'd be outnumbered?" you ask.
"In my opinion – no," says Sir Marszowski. "But these bands could range from a few dozen to a few hundred."
"Dost thou know?" you turn to the serf. You realize you're speaking to him as God does to man.
"At least thirty, Your Highness, at least thirty but we know not for certain."
"Numbers mean little in things like these, Your Serene Highness," says the Fleming, showing off a missing front tooth with his smile as his blonde hair catches in the sun. He's like a shaggy dog made man. "Not– not to speak out of turn."
"Not at all, sir, if anybody would know…" you point at him and smile.
"Thank you, Your Serene Highness! And the moon's nearly full," he exclaims, giving a bow, "we will have them!" Van Gistel eagerly turns his heel and sets himself to marching up and down the road, arms crossed, glancing over toward the village.
"Very eager," you comment.
"Well, who wouldn't be, Your Serene Highness?" smirks Marszowski. "This is the biggest promotion of his life, and you're letting him run things."
"Do you… Do you think that's bad?" you ask, leaning over your horse into his ear.
"Not necessarily, lord prince, so long as you make the final decision and uphold respect."
After a few minutes, van Gistel asks a man up front, a rich herald with a big Frisian stallion, something you can't hear; he winds up balancing on his tiptoes atop the attendant's horse.
He looks back and shouts: "I'm thinking we could set something in the barley fields, Your Serene Highness, or waylay them on this road, maybe even within the village itself; we could hide in the houses and let them get close. Serfs would pad out our numbers, too." He jumps down from the horse and begins to trot back to you.
The sobbing peasant had been turning his head back and forth all the while, listening in. He switches to his rough Polish: "We can help, we can help, we're not cowards, just scared. The children know good hiding spots."
"Bandits are cowards, Your Serene Highness," says van Gistel, arriving with breath to spare. "They run easily, but they'll be back should we not take their leader somehow."
What do you think? Van Gistel and Marszowski will certainly advise.
The village and its barrier-fields of barley lie to your left-hand side, perhaps a tenth of a mile in all – the road diverges into a curving trail leading to the hamlet a few hundred feet to your front. Shallow, muddy ditches on either side of the main road exist for rudimentary drainage.
[] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."
Hopefully their horses would spook, sending them into the fields or to run the gauntlet of the ambush-trail. Isolated melees likely.
[] "I like the idea of the village. They'd be surrounded and outnumbered."
A superior attack from all sides, with overwhelming numbers but overwhelming chaos. And what if they burn the houses, or sense something's wrong first?
[] "On the road, from the ditches. I'd wager that we could pull them right off their horses."
Any escapees would be fearsome on horseback, with a track to charge down should they not flee. But a short-range rush could prove devastating and decisive, but result in melee.
[] "What about a little cavalry charge, Sir Marszowski? Right through the fields into their flanks on the road."
Surely they won't *all* be mounted? They're brigands. Run them down like the curs they are. A good carbine volley before impact and they're finished on the spot, perhaps after a brief melee.
[] "What if we spread the men and serfs across this whole stretch and attack at the halfway mark?"
Allowing them to reach a midway point up the track to the village, then folding inwards from their front and rear. A combination of the above plans hopefully leading to a thin circle, but an encirclement nonetheless.
[] Write-in.
Like building a wagon-fort or something?
Your mind is removed from the decision you must make at Kodeń.
He speaks Polish through a thick accent, drowning out the birds and insects. "My lord, ah, Your Highness, my lord, I come on bended knee to, ah–"
You look down from your horse. "Speak, man."
"Piotr Borkowicz! The Outlaw Pan! He's alive! And if we don't give him all our head of cattle and-and-and–" his voice cracks, "three maidens, God help us, three of our girls, to do, to do–"
"Slow down. Slow down. Who is this 'Sir' Borkowicz?"
"A devil! A bastard! Ain't a soul in his fat body, I'd kill him if I–!"
"Relax!" You can practice raising your voice at peasants, you dimly suppose. "I'm sure all of this is true but who is he? And where?"
"Piotr Borkowicz! He betrayed Master Paweł five years ago and hid out in the woods! Used the strongboxes of gold he stole from Master to raise himself up a little army!" He cannot lower his voice, which cracks on occasion through his panicked stammer. "And–and the Sapieha men came when it happened, God bless those brave men, they killed his men but not the bastard but now he's back! He's back! We thought he ran away. We don't know what to–"
"Easy now, man. Easy," you say, putting out a palm. "We're friends of the Sapiehowie; we can help. Now when's that, uh," you assume he probably doesn't know 'ultimatum'. "Tax of his due?"
"Tonight! We sent Kostya and little Vanya four days ago to Kodeń on the donkeys and God protect them but they're not back yet. What happened to him, o God, they volunteered, we were too… We have… We need the starost's men, but– We have pitchforks, our billhooks, ah, our grainflails, a matchlock and some bows and, but… By God, God help us, they have pistols and swords and horses and…"
You try to speak like old Tatjana, switching to his language, his peasant register. You want to soothe him, and almost try to address him as a child. "Thou wilt be protected, God as my witness," you raise an oath-taking hand. "We know thy Lord, he's a good man, but there be no time to waste; we'll put these brigands in the ground or on the gallows."
"God bless you! God bless you! Glory to God!" The poor man is finally crying.
"We'll take care of this rabble," you tell him. You turn to Marszowski, switching back to Polish. "I said we'll–" a shock runs through you, but you say it: "I said we'll kill the bastards."
"Capture the rest for the executioners," he says, displaying that rarely-seen savagery. "They need the water-cure or the wheel, strappado, I don't know, there's nothing I hate more than bastard traitors who abuse the little people."
"He's a shame to his herb. We'd do his clansmen a favor," you say. You're burning up. "We don't need to deliver him to court, you know, only if we want." You think that may be correct – you're not sure, probably condemned in absentia anyways – but realize that you're a Radziwiłł and this bastard is… Whoever he is. It'll be fine in these lawless times. You've been waiting for something like this. You think. "What do you know about setting ambushes?"
"Not much." Sir Marszowski smirks, looking almost wistful. "I'm a cavalry charge man, lord prince." But he looks over his shoulder. "Have you met van Gistel yet?"
"Van Gistel?"
"Aye, Karol van Gistel, ah, so, you haven't..? Well, he just arrived yesterday at nightfall," he says. "Since you told your father you wanted a captain; I let him rest before an introduction, rode here so fast he needed relief horses." He looks back to your assorted attendants and bodyguards. "Hey, Sir van Gistel, get up here, please!" He turns back to you, quieter. "Netherlandish rebel who wasn't getting paid enough."
Marszowski continues. "He's only been with our infantry since about '71 or so, but all my little birds say he's rock-solid. Led a pike square but we haven't tried him out yet, also with the castle guard; he knows his stuff." Your lieutenant smiles and gives an exaggerated finger-wag. "You don't know your own bodyguards, lord prince?"
The youngish, tall blonde man riding up must have heard that; he dismounts and takes a knee. "Karol van Gistel, Your Serene Highness. For the Family I'll give my life." And speaks perfect Polish!
"Rise, van Gistel," you say, trying to act princely. He obeys. "I'm told you've led men?" you notice he's missing his left ear and a piece of corresponding cheek, and wears a crescent-shaped pin in his Polish-style cap.
"Yes, Your Serene Highness. In the Low Countries and in the Grand Duchy, may the Lord preserve both." Yet the soldier looks bashful. "Well, I haven't had the chance quite yet to have a real formation here, actually, Your Serene Highness."
"Please, sir, tell me why did you come here?"
"I did three years with the geuzen, Your Serene Highness – ah, 'beggars,' is what we called ourselves–"
"Yes, I was in France for years, you know, so I'm quite aware of the Netherlandish war." You scratch your chin, worried about being lied to yet again. "And I know of its barbarism, the tyranny of the Duke. So… Why leave such a noble cause, sir?"
"Well, I didn't want to, Your Serene Highness." He taps the crescent pin. "This is for merit. It says…" he seems tentative for a moment. "There's a motto on it. It says, ah, 'Rather Turkish than Popish, in spite of mass.'"
"You know I'm thick-skinned on such things, sir, worry not. But my question."
"My apologies, Your Serene Highness. I'm of Brabant, you see, and a nobleman. My family had a little estate and between the Pa– Catholic mobs, and, well, what I did – we lost it all." He clears his throat. "Guilt, Your Serene Highness, honest to the Lord. And a man cannot survive comfortably on a rebel Prince's guilder. I fought my way across the Empire in some petty squabbles and now I serve the Family."
He will suffice, perhaps. You point at the serf, still crying, shaking and fidgeting in place. "Did you catch any of what he said?"
"Man's in hysterics, Your Serene Highness."
"Yes. There's a gang of thieves and murderers threatening them," you say, making a sweeping hand at the thatch and wood-shingled roofs a couple hundred łokcie away, across the barley field. Nobody is outside, no smokestacks from their chimneys "They're demanding girls and cattle. They come tonight."
He shakes his head. "The cunts." Hard to read what he really thinks. Mercenaries aren't the most dissimilar, after all.
"Indeed." You sigh. The world is so heavy sometimes. But all this talk of Livonia has brought something out in you, something like the steel of grandfather's jousting plates. You're tired of watching and shaking and crying. "I'm told that you can lead footmen in particular."
"Yes, Your Serene Highness, though it's been a year or so since I've been a genuine colonel." Of course Father would send an untested man. For his untested son.
Hm. But it's all as Marszowski said. "Well, what do you know about setting ambushes?"
Van Gistel cracks a smile. "A good deal, Your Serene Highness. Back during the war, we tended to attack at night. Later on it was open battle, and I could use what I learned fighting the thirds, but, well, in a word – yes, I can set an ambush."
You look at Marszowski; he nods. "Then we need you, sir. And for tonight. The head-count is, what, fifty or so?"
Sir Marszowski squints. "Fifty-three, Your Serene Highness; Sirs Nowicki and Hejnisz are the ones with flux back at Kodeń. Twenty carbines and everybody's got a sword and dagger and near-everyone a horse. Couple of ceremonial halberds we could sharpen up in a pinch." He lowers his voice. "Some of the lads are fifteen, sixteen, though. Assistants. They can fight but aren't tested." Ah, like me.
"Do you reckon we'd be outnumbered?" you ask.
"In my opinion – no," says Sir Marszowski. "But these bands could range from a few dozen to a few hundred."
"Dost thou know?" you turn to the serf. You realize you're speaking to him as God does to man.
"At least thirty, Your Highness, at least thirty but we know not for certain."
"Numbers mean little in things like these, Your Serene Highness," says the Fleming, showing off a missing front tooth with his smile as his blonde hair catches in the sun. He's like a shaggy dog made man. "Not– not to speak out of turn."
"Not at all, sir, if anybody would know…" you point at him and smile.
"Thank you, Your Serene Highness! And the moon's nearly full," he exclaims, giving a bow, "we will have them!" Van Gistel eagerly turns his heel and sets himself to marching up and down the road, arms crossed, glancing over toward the village.
"Very eager," you comment.
"Well, who wouldn't be, Your Serene Highness?" smirks Marszowski. "This is the biggest promotion of his life, and you're letting him run things."
"Do you… Do you think that's bad?" you ask, leaning over your horse into his ear.
"Not necessarily, lord prince, so long as you make the final decision and uphold respect."
After a few minutes, van Gistel asks a man up front, a rich herald with a big Frisian stallion, something you can't hear; he winds up balancing on his tiptoes atop the attendant's horse.
He looks back and shouts: "I'm thinking we could set something in the barley fields, Your Serene Highness, or waylay them on this road, maybe even within the village itself; we could hide in the houses and let them get close. Serfs would pad out our numbers, too." He jumps down from the horse and begins to trot back to you.
The sobbing peasant had been turning his head back and forth all the while, listening in. He switches to his rough Polish: "We can help, we can help, we're not cowards, just scared. The children know good hiding spots."
"Bandits are cowards, Your Serene Highness," says van Gistel, arriving with breath to spare. "They run easily, but they'll be back should we not take their leader somehow."
What do you think? Van Gistel and Marszowski will certainly advise.
The village and its barrier-fields of barley lie to your left-hand side, perhaps a tenth of a mile in all – the road diverges into a curving trail leading to the hamlet a few hundred feet to your front. Shallow, muddy ditches on either side of the main road exist for rudimentary drainage.
[] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."
Hopefully their horses would spook, sending them into the fields or to run the gauntlet of the ambush-trail. Isolated melees likely.
[] "I like the idea of the village. They'd be surrounded and outnumbered."
A superior attack from all sides, with overwhelming numbers but overwhelming chaos. And what if they burn the houses, or sense something's wrong first?
[] "On the road, from the ditches. I'd wager that we could pull them right off their horses."
Any escapees would be fearsome on horseback, with a track to charge down should they not flee. But a short-range rush could prove devastating and decisive, but result in melee.
[] "What about a little cavalry charge, Sir Marszowski? Right through the fields into their flanks on the road."
Surely they won't *all* be mounted? They're brigands. Run them down like the curs they are. A good carbine volley before impact and they're finished on the spot, perhaps after a brief melee.
[] "What if we spread the men and serfs across this whole stretch and attack at the halfway mark?"
Allowing them to reach a midway point up the track to the village, then folding inwards from their front and rear. A combination of the above plans hopefully leading to a thin circle, but an encirclement nonetheless.
[] Write-in.
Like building a wagon-fort or something?
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I appreciate how the text of our choices reflects our character's lack of experience as a commander. He's doing his best to appraise the situation, but book knowledge is all he's got.
Between all the options, I feel most confident in the cavalry ambush, but with reservations about our own physical fitness.
So I'll go with the first option, as it makes use of all our advantages, both our infantry and our cavalry. The risk is that the bandit leader may escape. But then, we can also be and appear to be in command without having to engage in melee before we recover physically.
[X] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."
Between all the options, I feel most confident in the cavalry ambush, but with reservations about our own physical fitness.
So I'll go with the first option, as it makes use of all our advantages, both our infantry and our cavalry. The risk is that the bandit leader may escape. But then, we can also be and appear to be in command without having to engage in melee before we recover physically.
[X] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."
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- Pronouns
- He
[X] "We can pick them off from the barley fields, then charge out of it? Let them make it to the trail."