"All Lithuania backs the House of Habsburg, Your Imperial Majesty, and some of the Polonians, too."
That's not a lie, but there won't be enough Crownlanders. Not at the moment, at least. "That is but one half of your country, lord prince," replies the Emperor – he knows it. "And we are told that it is the smaller one, with fewer cities and many marshes." And that's not a lie, either. "Furthermore, we understand that your elections must be resolved with unanimity, and that any one man may make a stand against something he does not want."
Another truth, which Sierotka acknowledges. "But such obstructionists are often forced into assent, by word or by sword-point." Maybe that's too honest.
"We do indeed always find a way, Your Imperial Majesty," you chuckle, half-nervous, glancing at your loose-lipped cousin. Now for some flattery. "Your Imperial Majesty knows well how to deal with free vassals, the rule of consensus, the convention of councils and the management of the estates."
The elections here are more or less shams; everyone knows that. The Emperor sits still upon his throne.
"Perhaps we do. What did our son, King Rudolf, say about these matters?"
You and Sierotka look at each other. Your cousin speaks for you: "he… He did not say anything one way or another, Your Imperial Majesty. But he treated us most graciously and gracefully, showing us all the fineries of glorious Prague!" There isn't an ounce of insincerity to that; as little as you truly know cousin Sierotka, he is a man who does not and cannot sit still – he's been beaming for the entirety of the mission. Nearly every day he sighs and says: smell that foreign air!
"We are most pleased to hear that," replies the Emperor. "He is not one to make decisions hastily, and he is right to speak to his father on these matters first. We hope that was no cause for frustration."
You shake your head. "Of course not, Your Imperial Majesty."
"May our son, the Archduke Ernest, please step forward."
From the semi-circle of courtiers taking in the scene – such is the nature of public proceedings that you barely even took note of them – comes forth a near-copy of his brother, brown-eyed and skinny-faced in such a way so as to accentuate the familial underbite even further, jutting through his beard. He looks you and Sierotka over, before bowing deeply to his father. "How may I serve Your Imperial Majesty?" he asks in Latin, a Spanish or perhaps Italian accent like that of Rudolf.
A conversation in German is initiated, making you glance at Sierotka with some worry. The Emperor makes a motion like he's throwing a ball underhand and Ernest turns to you and places a hand on his hip. "I shall be addressed as 'Your Royal Highness:' do not mistake the dux in my title for needing some other styling. My father, His Imperial Majesty, wonders aloud as to why my prior bid for your homeland's throne failed."
"Our Protestants fear a good Catholic king, Your Royal Highness, despite articles guaranteeing their rights – the rest fear a war with the Turk," blurts out Sierotka. Too much candor? You're not sure.
"And, so… Why will this not happen again? A defeat, that is. Why bother trying once more?"
Sierotka continues: "Our Grand Duchy is encroached upon further by men of the Polish Crown with each passing day – we in Lithuania are, well, we are desperate."
Ernest throws up a hand. "Desperate enough to…"
The Emperor clears his throat, and his son looks to him. "We shall keep silent on matters of war and faith, for the time being; after our porters help the lord princes and their entourage settle in, and after dinner is served, we shall request a private audience with both of you. There we may speak more freely."
"We are eager, Your Imperial Majesty," says Sierotka with a bow.
"Indeed, Your Imperial Majesty," you add, joining your cousin by dipping low.
The feast is rather breathless, therefore – you can't even remember what the fare was! It was difficult to stir up an appetite. You miss your wife, who seems to be trying and failing to befriend the Empress' straight-backed and powder-faced Spanish ladies-in-waiting. She smiles, they don't, and yet Mariana refuses to steal some glances at you. You need the Friar. You do, don't you? Such doubt since that night in Prague. But God must always be honored, and the Habsburgs may provide that; the heretics must return into the fold. Peacefully, peacefully. The Prince Janusz Ostrogski – may he arrive someday, if at all – said that only Ernest is a man of proper faith from among the entire crop of Habsburgs. But things are handled differently in this part of the world. After all, it took much bloody war for cuius regio to be brought into the world.
A red-pink dusk of early autumn is settling over Vienna as you and Sierotka are ushered into the Emperor's quarters. He sits, rather unstately, at the foot of his bed, hat removed to reveal a near-bald head. "How stiff we must be before the court. We desire real answers now."
"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," you and Sierotka reply with deference.
"Firstly, we imagine a world where your churchmen – for we are told one of the Archbishops presides over the throne in times of interregnum – move to declare one of our family king. But some of your nobles oppose it – then what? We must know if an army should ever be committed to guarantee our claim."
The prospect of securing the throne at pike-point makes your stomach drop. Sierotka says nothing; you must speak for all Lithuania. "We… We cannot guarantee that any of our people could or would support such an endeavor, Your Imperial Majesty."
"Revolt is one thing, but invasion… Your Imperial Majesty…" Sierotka places a hand to his chin. "Revolt is an enshrined right of our Commonwealth."
The Emperor's eyes dart between the two of you. "Then you mean to say that Lithuania would stand against Polonia in our favor?"
"That would be devastating," you say, barely able to stay composed. "The Muscovites would set themselves upon us like wolves, and the Tatars, too."
"So, no, then," nods the Emperor. "Very well. And your land's… quilt of religion – it is something we have dealt with before." He pokes himself in the chest. "Me?" A little jolt passes through you as he drops his Imperial countenance, as he speaks as a man. "Me, I could give a fig about matters of religion; I only care if someone kills or dies for it – look at France. If heretics wish to condemn themselves, let them do so in peace, and let them leave true Christians alone in kind." He smiles. "Mass is a bore anyways."
He clears his throat and goes on. "Ernst would be too faithful, though the Lord knows he is most willing, and Rudolf is my– our– firstborn. It comes down to either ourself or young Matthias. That boy is as flexible as a birch-strip; he's the third son, so, you understand, he shall take what he can get." Yes, maybe. A past you understood, a fellow third son, but that was before God gave you everything you'd ever need. The Emperor rises from the foot of his bed. "If we commit to this bid, we shall commit wholeheartedly – we leave the task of selection to you two delegates, for we shall play this game to win. We want whatever suits your realm best."
"May I…" Sierotka sounds tentative. "May I ask why such resolve, Your Imperial Majesty?"
"Because your realm produces enough grain to feed the Empire twice over, because your country's horsemen are fiercer than a Mameluke. Hungary must be defended and Transylvania brought to heel. And in exchange, my lords: your Tatars shall be driven back into Asia, and will the Swede and Muscovite not bow before Polonia, master of the East Sea? Will the riches of our coffers, the favorable loans of our bankers, not be offered up to the loyal ones?" He smiles. "You are dangling quite the prize before our nose, lord princes."
"We are glad that you know how hard-won it would be, Your Imperial Majesty," says Sierotka.
The Emperor looks to you. "You have been quiet, lord prince."
"With God on our side, anything is possible," you say, unable to find anything better. It's good that Sierotka is willing to be the bold one this time around.
"Perhaps that is the case," says the Emperor. He sighs. "Though you know we would have to rule by intermediaries, dividing our time between Vienna and Cracovia. We shall think more on this – and so shall you. God does not truly decide the winners of things, may He forgive me for saying such." Yes, may He. "Wise men triumph, well-advised men. You two may go. Consider ourselves to be properly interested."
Very good. Probably. You retire to your chambers without talking things over with Sierotka – the Emperor was plain-spoken enough.
And there's a knock on the door. You open it to find a very young man, with hair the color of sand and a sparse, rather unflattering suggestion of a mustache adorning his face. He is tall but rather gangly, perhaps not even fully grown – indeed, you are looking at a lad of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, you reckon. His resemblance to Rudolf is noticeable, with his tall forehead and prominent eyes. This fellow is properly handsome, though, with plenty of lithe jawbone but none of that chin. This must be…
"I am the Archduke Matthias," he says in Northern-accented French, with a voice only half-deepened by age. "And I am here of my own volition."
Your mind rushes to recall that out-of-practice tongue. "What– how– and what may I do for you, Your Royal Highness?"
He lets himself in; you retreat into the center of the chamber, slightly stunned. "I first must request your styling, my lord, for Octavianus knew that to properly lead one must be primus inter pares, and I as a prince look upon a prince and wish to speak to him as one."
"I am 'Your Serene Highness,' Your Royal Highness."
"Well then, Your Serene Highness, my father the Emperor has just informed me that I may, perhaps, stand as candidate for your august countries' thrones." He doesn't break eye contact, not even for a moment. "And I would be honored if your delegation found me to be the right man." Young man.
You can't contain some curiosity. "Your Royal Highness speaks French very well – and is the first of his people to do so."
He laughs. "I was tutored by a learned old Picard Fleming; he taught me much of Augustus from his travels in Turkey, where they keep such knowledge to themselves at Angora and Constantinople." He stiffens up once more, and regains that steely look in his eye. "The Turks are no barbarians. Did you know their Sultan considers himself the heir to Rome? And, indeed, they have done their reading, hence why they are so fearsome. But so have I."
You blink. Prince Janusz wasn't lying when he said that this boy is hungry. Matthias continues: "I believe in law and tradition and the land, as Caesar did. Peace by any means necessary. I will bring peace to your lands, God as my witness, within and without. There is nothing for me in this land, nothing more than governorships or perhaps even a bishopric. What would I commit myself to but the well-being of your people?"
Did Augustus not lord over his Senate? "Your Royal Highness desires a life anew, then?"
"Indeed, and it matters not who I must marry or what I must offer up to Your Serene Highness' realm. I believe in respect, in honor and good conduct between noblemen. I have chosen the motto: concordia lumine maior. Your Protestants will see themselves honored as the Holy Church is uplifted, I will balance the scales – to your people's estates I will listen and obey, and in the same breath I shall reconstitute the ecclesiastical courts, spread the Faith by peaceable means."
This is practiced. It must be. As much as this speech is making your heart stir some, it seems tailor-made, suspiciously so. His voice is too clear, his words too well-chosen. The Emperor's apathy regarding religion was honest, nonchalant, even, as he broke the royal we, but this boy contradicts himself. How can one truly strengthen the Church without undermining the Protestants? He must know you are a Catholic, and a faithful one, too.
You raise a hand. "Your Royal Highness, how do you intend to do all this? You know our kingship is a willfully hobbled one, for our freedom comes before anything."
His face flickers; he stutters just a bit. "By– because I shall live as a Polonian, change my dress, my manners, my language. In me you will find a native son in due time."
That's still not an answer… "But how, Your Royal Highness?" It's against your nature to push a man like this, but his bluster irks you.
He throws his hands up and seems nearly upset. "Did Augustus know how he would overcome Egypt, how he would defeat Brutus and Cassius? No. But he knew how to play the field."
Well, do you? "I will lay down everything for your glorious sister-nations," says Matthias. "I will make myself well-advised – and that means Your Serene Highness and his cousin, too."
You'd mistake him for a dairyman, what with all this butter. But there is a fire in his eyes; the passion of Rudolf combined with the haughtiness of Ernest, as little as you know of the latter. This Matthias is just as likely to be a windbag as he is a truly strong youth. Or a tyrant-to-be. You cock your head.
"Perhaps I have said too much, Your Serene Highness?" There are those nerves betraying him again. He is mighty easy to read.
"Well, I am certainly provided with much food for thought," you say, trying not to show your hand. "But it is not a good thing to speak hastily, without the presence of my cousin."
"I shall… I shall take my leave then," says Matthias, stepping onto his back foot. He thought this would be easier? "But know this: I wish greatly to speak before your Senate, your assembled estates – I desire to visit those lands and see their marvels ."
"Very good, Your Royal Highness. Till we meet again."
He nods.
The next day, you find safety in the Polish language to at last speak freely to Sierotka. You and he mull over the meeting with the Emperor, and you recount your meeting with Matthias.
You conclude:
[] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."
Think of it: a boy-king, impressionable and ambitious and far from home. Provided that the right advisors are kept in his ear, he could be a great friend to the Lithuanian and Radziwiłł cause. But who knows how he may mature. That Caesar talk is a bit worrying – if he turns out to be competent, that is.
[] "Maciej is most impressive, even if he's a bit… A bit loud."
He's certainly more poised than you at his age – speaking at Meaux was your greatest achievement in those days, not approaching foreign dignitaries to offer up a bid for the throne. He may be nurtured into a true Polonian king, and a bridge between the Empire and the East. But one must be careful to ensure he turns out that way, perhaps.
[] "Maciej is full of bluster; it's the Emperor himself who we need."
Although that would definitively make the Empire and Austria's problems the problems of the Commonwealth, the prize of an Emperor-King is too rich to pass up. The aid of his countrymen would prove invaluable – assisting against the Turk would surely see Imperial troops committed to Livonia, you hope – and the inroads that could be made with the West invaluable for the realm in general and your people in particular. Imagine the reward that would be an Imperial marriage into the Radziwiłłowie! Not to mention the character of the Emperor: level-headed, religiously tolerant, and aware of the weight of the Commonwealth – his duties he would certainly not take lightly. But he himself mentioned that he would be splitting his time, and what man would truly give up his homeland in favor of a foreign throne (Maciej doesn't count).
