Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
XXIII. May 12, 1575-May 21, 1575. Stężyca, Lublin Voivodeship, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
With the coming of the Sejm of Stężyca, you leave Kraków to travel once more through the springtime fields, where the serfs are hard at work weeding the grain fields and laying down onion and leek bulbs, scattering beetroot seeds into the wind. You feel an odd jealousy at their simplicity, but remind yourself that they are stupid by nature and live lives most unenviable. As for you, well, you hold a realm's future in your hands, sharing that burden with countless others. It nearly renders moot the finer things of life.
You relieved the Friar and left him in the Royal capital. He betrayed no emotion and merely nodded along with your explanation: that you have given into hypocrisy and self-righteousness, depriving yourself of the earthly world, and that the time has come for a certain loosening. You wonder if you simply never heeded his words and instead gave in to pride; after all, he cautioned you on your zealotry again and again. But, nevertheless, he is gone now. You are adrift before God and yet have never felt more free. Odd.
You turn your attention, for the first time in over a year, outwards. Poor Mariana, dearest Mariana, there must be something to do for her to make things right. Although busy now, you decide to spend the summer (should it be free)…
[] Simply speaking with her. Relearning who she is, and opening yourself up in kind.
[] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
[] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.
As for Sir Marszowski: "Chevalier amie, I owe you an apology," you blurt out to him one night in a folwark house's half-spartan quarters, having entered his chamber unbidden.
You see on his face that he must know but, ever the gentleman, he defers. "What ever for, Your Serene Highness?"
You cannot lie. "I thought you a sinful man, Sir Marszowski–"
"Well, aren't I?" he interjects, ever unable to fend off a quip.
You grin. "Maybe so. But, I turned away from you as a Pharisee would a tax collector, and I let myself forget that…" By God, this lump in your throat! "I forgot that you are my real father."
He looks like you just told him that his mother died and his cat has given birth to puppies all in the same breath. He blinks rapidly. "Ah, Your Serene Highness, ah–"
"No more titles in private. Please. I want things to be the way they were. I am a servant of God, but you are my greatest friend."
"Then it shall be so, lord prince."
"Stanisław. Say it."
"You are Stanisław Radziwiłł of the Trąby," he nods. "And I never had a son, but…"
You find that you're hugging each other. It was somewhat involuntary. You break the embrace and try to find some semblance of princeliness. "Consider yourself once more my closest advisor, Sir Marszowski, and the best man I've ever known."
"Even though this one is bound for Hell?" he smiles.
"Even if you're for the Pit."
Another hug.
Sadly, there isn't much time to be sentimental. You arrive at Stężyca after nine days' rapid travel, to find the convention in full swing. Only the Lord knows when – and if – Maciej will be able to make an appearance. But you grin, you cannot help it, at the idea of the young lad strutting into the Sejm with an army of diplomats at his back, ready to speak as a savior of the realm and as a young King. May his great bluff strike awe; you reckon that, while he must think he knows what he's doing, he truly is in the dark. Even if the two of you are closer in age than you'd like to admit.
In the meantime, you're sobered somewhat: you've got no clue who's here, what they've been talking about, or in what direction the debates have been trending. There is good cause to be decisive, to speak passionately here and now -- for what man can't look upon boldness with respect in this country? -- but you're not even sure if your own brothers are here. Nevertheless, nearly every head turns to face the arrival of what may well be a representative of Lithuania itself.
You decide to…
[] Barge in with fanfare, using your position as a Radziwiłł to address the crowds of noblemen.
[] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
[] Try to parlay with your likely rivals.
[] Get the lay of the land more generally.
You relieved the Friar and left him in the Royal capital. He betrayed no emotion and merely nodded along with your explanation: that you have given into hypocrisy and self-righteousness, depriving yourself of the earthly world, and that the time has come for a certain loosening. You wonder if you simply never heeded his words and instead gave in to pride; after all, he cautioned you on your zealotry again and again. But, nevertheless, he is gone now. You are adrift before God and yet have never felt more free. Odd.
You turn your attention, for the first time in over a year, outwards. Poor Mariana, dearest Mariana, there must be something to do for her to make things right. Although busy now, you decide to spend the summer (should it be free)…
[] Simply speaking with her. Relearning who she is, and opening yourself up in kind.
[] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
[] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.
As for Sir Marszowski: "Chevalier amie, I owe you an apology," you blurt out to him one night in a folwark house's half-spartan quarters, having entered his chamber unbidden.
You see on his face that he must know but, ever the gentleman, he defers. "What ever for, Your Serene Highness?"
You cannot lie. "I thought you a sinful man, Sir Marszowski–"
"Well, aren't I?" he interjects, ever unable to fend off a quip.
You grin. "Maybe so. But, I turned away from you as a Pharisee would a tax collector, and I let myself forget that…" By God, this lump in your throat! "I forgot that you are my real father."
He looks like you just told him that his mother died and his cat has given birth to puppies all in the same breath. He blinks rapidly. "Ah, Your Serene Highness, ah–"
"No more titles in private. Please. I want things to be the way they were. I am a servant of God, but you are my greatest friend."
"Then it shall be so, lord prince."
"Stanisław. Say it."
"You are Stanisław Radziwiłł of the Trąby," he nods. "And I never had a son, but…"
You find that you're hugging each other. It was somewhat involuntary. You break the embrace and try to find some semblance of princeliness. "Consider yourself once more my closest advisor, Sir Marszowski, and the best man I've ever known."
"Even though this one is bound for Hell?" he smiles.
"Even if you're for the Pit."
Another hug.
Sadly, there isn't much time to be sentimental. You arrive at Stężyca after nine days' rapid travel, to find the convention in full swing. Only the Lord knows when – and if – Maciej will be able to make an appearance. But you grin, you cannot help it, at the idea of the young lad strutting into the Sejm with an army of diplomats at his back, ready to speak as a savior of the realm and as a young King. May his great bluff strike awe; you reckon that, while he must think he knows what he's doing, he truly is in the dark. Even if the two of you are closer in age than you'd like to admit.
In the meantime, you're sobered somewhat: you've got no clue who's here, what they've been talking about, or in what direction the debates have been trending. There is good cause to be decisive, to speak passionately here and now -- for what man can't look upon boldness with respect in this country? -- but you're not even sure if your own brothers are here. Nevertheless, nearly every head turns to face the arrival of what may well be a representative of Lithuania itself.
You decide to…
[] Barge in with fanfare, using your position as a Radziwiłł to address the crowds of noblemen.
[] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
[] Try to parlay with your likely rivals.
[] Get the lay of the land more generally.
- Pronouns
- He
I would love to conviene the hunting and the talking with Mariana, but if we must chose one i say is better to with the talking, after all we are in a relationship and the base of all ralationship is communication
For the other option i am lost
For the other option i am lost
Stężyca is not a Sejm (I called it one)
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
By the way, the Stężyca Meeting was not a Sejm (these would usually be called to Warsaw, although there were rare exceptions, like Toruń in 1576 or the Coronation Sejms in Cracow). It was convocated on the day of the deadline of Henry's return to Poland. Since he obviously didn't, the whole gathering was just a bickering fest between nobles and magnates. The Archbishop of Gniezno as Interrex will decide about the date of the Convocation Sejm and said parliament shall then determine when the Election Sejm (always in Wola near Warsaw, due to the sheer number of nobles that will come, anything between 10 000 - 100 000, usually around 10 000 - 15 000) to pick the King will take place.
For now, the Archbishop will declare the throne vacant in accordance with the Sejm's previous threat of deposition, the Hoods shall take over and that's that.
Just to add, the candidates themselves were barred from attending the Election Sejm in person, but could speak through representatives.
[X] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
When it comes to our wife, the classics will do.
As for Stężyca, the time to address the nobles will come during the election. Whatever impression we'll make shall quickly be forgotten in a few months. Right now we plan and scheme.
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[X] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
I think spending time with her and creating new fond memories will be better than trying to buy our way out as a penance.
[] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
Edited. Switched vote to
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
I think spending time with her and creating new fond memories will be better than trying to buy our way out as a penance.
[] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
Edited. Switched vote to
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
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bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
A genuine sacrifice on his part a bit for something she is quite good at and recalls a significant moment of vulnerability and intimacy between them, since he is still like the most Calvinist Catholic in the world despite finally backing off from pumping himself up to actually become a flagellant or something, and he was always a sensitive soul dealing withPTSD the melancholia who would much rather live in a society where you can just appreciate nature in a good constitutional through the woods without necessarily killing something at the end of it.
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
This is like the pre-gaming of Sejms, and without the big big crowds it will be that much easier to mingle with most of the on the ground factional whips and regional power brokers and just get a vibe check on what concerns and desires and general feelings would need to be addressed going forward into the Convocation Sejm
A genuine sacrifice on his part a bit for something she is quite good at and recalls a significant moment of vulnerability and intimacy between them, since he is still like the most Calvinist Catholic in the world despite finally backing off from pumping himself up to actually become a flagellant or something, and he was always a sensitive soul dealing with
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
This is like the pre-gaming of Sejms, and without the big big crowds it will be that much easier to mingle with most of the on the ground factional whips and regional power brokers and just get a vibe check on what concerns and desires and general feelings would need to be addressed going forward into the Convocation Sejm
- Location
- United States
[X] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.
I am swayed by this argument.
[X] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
[X] Simply speaking with her. Relearning who she is, and opening yourself up in kind
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning
[X] Find some friendly faces and get to planning
I just read up this whole quest in two days. Gotta say, I'm hooked so much that I made an account just to participate instead of lurk. You all are quite educational, I must say.
[X] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
[X] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.
[X] Get the lay of the land more generally.
XXIII-II. May 21, 1575. Stężyca, Lublin Voivodeship, Polish Crownlands.
- Location
- United States
They can't hide from you now! The tepidness of Wawel shall be no more; like a full-fledged Sejm, the rather humble town and the camp ringing it are alive with activity, and nearly every noble and clergyman of note is in attendance.
You find the anti-Habsburg camp to be rather ragged, composed of rude farmer-lords and those damnable, mid-ranking strivers – the type who try to undermine august families such as yours at every turn. But, this is their part of the country, and the fur-wearing, brightly-dyed men that you will surely call allies are outnumbered indeed. The rabble crowd around their prince, the so-called "Gracchus Poloniae" and erstwhile Royal Secretary, Jan Zamoyski.
You encounter him within moments of your arrival, before you can find friends or even your own brothers, on the muddy track that composes the main thoroughfare of the camp. He is ringed with supporters and bodyguards who pucker at you and rest limp wrists on saber-pommels. Perhaps he was looking for you. "Your Serene Highness," he bows respectfully, "how long it's been since we've last encountered each other."
"Indeed, my lord," you reply after returning his bow, eyeing him up, and finding him to be as you remember him from '73: a handsome, long-faced man of perhaps thirty-five or so, wearing a Pole's mustache and dressed much better than his fellows.
"And I suppose we find ourselves as less than friends this time around," he smiles, "but may that not affect our cordiality."
"God willing," you say, trying not to sound flat. "We are brothers before Our Lord and before the Liberty."
"And we're under interregnum. You really intend to import some Austrian tyrant?"
"Tyrant?" you ask. "We're inviting a lad made out of putty."
"And raised up by Jesuits and Habsburg lackeys, I'm sure," he replies. "In any event, we need strength. War is coming. The selfishness of you and your people's proposal is clear. I stand for the majority, not your little magnates' or Lithuanian clique."
"Who will you have, then? The Prince of Legnica?" The man's a drunk and half-beholden to Vienna.
Zamoyski smiles, fox-like. "Where's the fun in telling your opponent your next move, Your Serene Highness? But it will be someone capable, someone who'll guide the country from within the country – any foreigner ought to be in the position to commit himself completely."
"Well, praise God, we agree on that at least."
He leans back. "Do we, now? News to me. Good Sarmatian men can see through the ploy."
What's he mean by that? That Ruthenians and Lithuanians are somehow of different blood, somehow disloyal to the Commonwealth? Certainly, the last Union favors the Crownlanders, but the two countries are sisters, by God. One of your bodyguards, a proud man of Troki, steps forward. You hold your hand up, but he's already past you.
One of Zamoyski's men spits. "Step back, Beetroot." The semi-circle around the Royal Secretary tightens.
"I ought to cut you down for that!" exclaims your man. "Snivelling high-and-mighty Crownland cur, dressed in rags!"
"Enough!" you shout, finding an anger usually-dormant. You address your underlings: "no fists, no blades! Take it up with each other when you're drunk, at least, I'm trying to talk to the man here," you say, pointing at Zamoyski.
"There's not much more to say, lord prince. You're going your way and I'm going mine. And truth and justice will win in the end, and dismantle any plot for self-serving power. The Brotherhood of Nobles will persevere in the face of magnates' tyranny." His men grunt approvingly and offer quiet hear-hear's.
"It's not like your estates are the smallest, Lord Zamoyski, but very well."
Zamoyski snorts. "But I treat all noblemen as equals, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "But let us step aside for the mighty prince," he says, gesturing to his men. "For the Lord knows we will not be so kind on other occasions."
They let your entourage through, staring daggers from your flanks.
You look for and find the yellow-black of the family's banner, rising high off a nice and large, pavilion-style tent. You enter to find your dear brothers and none other than the Crown Court Marshal Andrzej Zborowski, in the flesh at last, who rises from his seat and bows. Septimus smiles and gives a friendly nod as Krzysztof jumps up to greet you with a mildly indecorous, crushing hug. Christ Almighty, the man is strong. "Brother prince! You're here at last."
"Indeed-indeed, and I just had a venomous little parlay with Zamoyski."
Krzysztof laughs as Septimus and Zborowski start flapping their hands at the air, groaning. "Indeed, that viper is a nobody who wants to be somebody," says your eldest brother coolly.
"A striving little bastard, like his lordling army. Stirring things up, may well be trying to unseat us senators," adds Zborowski.
"He was very lofty, on about Liberty and fraternitas and justice and things," you say, "acting like we're petty kings and not worthy great houses."
"We're of the blood of Jagiełło and Witold's own sworn men," says Krzysztof, getting fiery. "Lord Zborowski – your father was Castellan of Kraków!"
"Highest senator in the land," nods the mustachioed man, dark as an Italian. "And his father a senator, too."
"That Jan Zamoyski thinks himself worthy of his father's – indeed admirable – merit. But his Liberty-speak is all a ploy. He just wants to be like us," you say, unable to not acknowledge your foe's position. It's not so simple.
The three men all speak at once, nodding in agreement, to the effect of: "and he'll do whatever it takes." That fox-man is dangerous.
You clap once. "Anyways!" you say, turning your attention to Lord Zborowski. "Where have you been, sir? I've been getting nothing but scant letters for the past half-year! Ignoring your suitor?" you half-joke.
"Well, that's what I'm here talking about," he says with a chuckle. "And I'll get to the point: we want a Habsburg, but we need Samuel home, and we need a guarantee of further protection of our confession."
You throw your hands in the air as if to say: anything you want! "And that can be arranged most easily, the Emperor's a tolerant man and this Maciej of his is eager to do anything to take a crack at ruling. As for Samuel…" you find your mouth failing you.
"Just because he's at the Transylvanian court doesn't mean you have to elect a Batory," says Krzysztof, turning to Zborowski.
"Of course not, of course not," he says. "But, in the eyes of the law, our brother is a murderer, and I've heard rumors that the Batory delegation would surely include him in the event of their Prince's election. I fear that only by proximity may he be brought back to us."
"I assure you, we'll find a way," Septimus says.
"Indeed!" you agree. "Indeed-indeed. I tell you, that lad will agree to anything we say, so long as we keep the Secretary out of his ear."
"Maybe so."
Our Lord Jesus Christ nor His Father cannot approve of all this… This scheming. Lying! You know that, and the Friar would've said that it's merely your lot in life, and that it'll compose a greater share of Sin than it would for lesser men, but it just doesn't feel right. And yet it's becoming easier and easier. It's a skill to practice, like swordsmanship or riding. What a grim one; you've got no taste for such things, but yet here you are. Perhaps it's best to accept it and make sure your Confessions are thorough each week, lest it all pass you by.
Thankfully, you find yourself next on horseback in Stężyca proper, being ushered into the finest lodgings in town.
"Forgive me for not rising to greet you," says the gold-jacketed old man, embroidered with floral motifs and crosses, no mitre to cover his liver-spotted pate. His white beard reaches down to his chest. "God has given me such trying knees."
You bow deeply before the Archbishop-Primate, Jakub Uchański. He is once more the Interrex. "Your Excellency. Praise be to the Lord Our God and His Son."
"To them and the Spirit goes all the glory," he replies. "I've heard you're a man of strong faith, Your Serene Highness."
"By His will it is so, and by the teachings of Saint Benedict," you say, forgetting your wrestling before such a pious man.
The Archbishop nods approvingly. "But God is putting our nations through a trial indeed."
"It is so," you agree.
"And there is one fear on my mind, as a servant of God and a man of the Commonwealth, as interrex: civil war. Lord Zamoyski and his… his people make me most nervous." He stares you down somewhat. "But so does Your Serene Highness' camp. I know you are a latecomer, but already have fistfights and even duels broken out. Nobody seems willing to back down."
A King in the pocket of the middling Crownlanders, of Princess Anna, even the more rabid Protestants – it would spell disaster for the diminishing Holy Church as much as it would for the Grand Duchy. The small lords could turn on the great ones, Lithuania and the Crown could find themselves at odds. And with Tatar and tyrant Iwan licking their lips. You must reveal the news, you think. "The young Archduke has boldly elected to come and visit this congress, knowing that by ancient law he may not approach the Convocated Sejm."
The Archbishop is silent for a moment. "That is a provocation."
"He must prove himself before our people," you say. "Your Excellency, he impressed myself and His Serene Highness the Prince Mikołaj, the one they call 'Orphan.' Archduke Maciej is fiery enough to rule, yet young enough to still listen to his elders."
"Well, you must understand that, as a representative of the Holy Church, I cannot support this venture more; might heart sings at the opportunities that may be afforded to the Faith. But I am a man of Polonia – and your Lithuania, too – and we need what is best for the realm. These are precarious times."
"Then I can only hope that he may be able to speak for himself, Your Excellency."
"Yes. May he."
The young Prince Janusz Ostrogski finds you in your personal tent around nightfall. "Your Serene Highness," he says, offering up a familiar handshake, "my apologies that I never joined you in Vienna."
You return the gesture. "Oh, it's fine – I take it your father called you off?"
"Indeed, and that's why I'm here in his stead."
You take a guess. "I don't understand: doesn't everyone know where he stands?"
"Yes, but it's for the same reason His Serene Highness' father isn't here: the chiefs of Lithuania and Ruthenia in the same place? That's enough to drive a proud Pole into hysterics. We cannot appear too united."
You hum. "But perhaps strength is what we need? Let the Crownlanders know that we Easterners won't be pushed around nor dissuaded? The Holy Church is with us, too."
"Your Holy Church," he reminds you. "And perhaps doing so would lend such an impression of strength," he says. "But it's on everybody's tongue that the Archduke will be coming to this meeting, and everybody's holding on to their caps and gripping their armrests and doing whatever else they must do to stay composed," he laughs. "Things have gotten very loud, very fast, and I reckon it's time for light touches."
"Maybe, maybe."
Or it's time to draw the sword and start hacking. Proverbially, of course. God willing.
The morning comes; you didn't sleep well. You're used to better accommodations than a tent, and the sounds of hunting dogs barking, drunken singing, and men fucking the camp followers kept you up.
But it's another day, and another assembly. Cheers and jeers pierce the air as Habsburg and Piast – as they've taken to calling themselves, invoking the Wheelwright – camps carry on fruitless debates. Rumors have begun to swirl that the Archduke has crossed the border, parading himself through Kraków to the tune of both cheers and vegetable-throwing, and that he may be only three or four or five days away from Stężyca.
You sit with your fellows of the senatorial class; only very few of the higher body have chosen to defect, though they're touted about by Zamoyski and friends. You decide to…
[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on some cynicism.
Make a pitch for a malleable yet energetic young King – emphasizing the former point. Intend to sway Piast voters with promises of (limited) reform and bountiful generosity coming from a half-captive seventeen-year-old. Emphasize, too, the access to Imperial coffers and armies, and a deepening of ties with the Empire.
[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on faith and earnestness.
It likely won't win you any new friends, as you'll be almost bald-facedly speaking to your own supporters, but remind your magnate-heavy camp that God has allowed for there to exist nobles greater and lesser, and that there is no finer or stronger family in Christendom than the Habsburgs.
[] Bide your time.
Let the Archduke do the talking; men respect it when someone speaks just for himself.
[] Ride out to meet Maciej.
To give him some coaching; your brothers may or may not accompany you. While this would better prepare the Archduke for his hopefully-triumphant entry into Stężyca, a small scandal may arise from such open collusion.
You find the anti-Habsburg camp to be rather ragged, composed of rude farmer-lords and those damnable, mid-ranking strivers – the type who try to undermine august families such as yours at every turn. But, this is their part of the country, and the fur-wearing, brightly-dyed men that you will surely call allies are outnumbered indeed. The rabble crowd around their prince, the so-called "Gracchus Poloniae" and erstwhile Royal Secretary, Jan Zamoyski.
You encounter him within moments of your arrival, before you can find friends or even your own brothers, on the muddy track that composes the main thoroughfare of the camp. He is ringed with supporters and bodyguards who pucker at you and rest limp wrists on saber-pommels. Perhaps he was looking for you. "Your Serene Highness," he bows respectfully, "how long it's been since we've last encountered each other."
"Indeed, my lord," you reply after returning his bow, eyeing him up, and finding him to be as you remember him from '73: a handsome, long-faced man of perhaps thirty-five or so, wearing a Pole's mustache and dressed much better than his fellows.
"And I suppose we find ourselves as less than friends this time around," he smiles, "but may that not affect our cordiality."
"God willing," you say, trying not to sound flat. "We are brothers before Our Lord and before the Liberty."
"And we're under interregnum. You really intend to import some Austrian tyrant?"
"Tyrant?" you ask. "We're inviting a lad made out of putty."
"And raised up by Jesuits and Habsburg lackeys, I'm sure," he replies. "In any event, we need strength. War is coming. The selfishness of you and your people's proposal is clear. I stand for the majority, not your little magnates' or Lithuanian clique."
"Who will you have, then? The Prince of Legnica?" The man's a drunk and half-beholden to Vienna.
Zamoyski smiles, fox-like. "Where's the fun in telling your opponent your next move, Your Serene Highness? But it will be someone capable, someone who'll guide the country from within the country – any foreigner ought to be in the position to commit himself completely."
"Well, praise God, we agree on that at least."
He leans back. "Do we, now? News to me. Good Sarmatian men can see through the ploy."
What's he mean by that? That Ruthenians and Lithuanians are somehow of different blood, somehow disloyal to the Commonwealth? Certainly, the last Union favors the Crownlanders, but the two countries are sisters, by God. One of your bodyguards, a proud man of Troki, steps forward. You hold your hand up, but he's already past you.
One of Zamoyski's men spits. "Step back, Beetroot." The semi-circle around the Royal Secretary tightens.
"I ought to cut you down for that!" exclaims your man. "Snivelling high-and-mighty Crownland cur, dressed in rags!"
"Enough!" you shout, finding an anger usually-dormant. You address your underlings: "no fists, no blades! Take it up with each other when you're drunk, at least, I'm trying to talk to the man here," you say, pointing at Zamoyski.
"There's not much more to say, lord prince. You're going your way and I'm going mine. And truth and justice will win in the end, and dismantle any plot for self-serving power. The Brotherhood of Nobles will persevere in the face of magnates' tyranny." His men grunt approvingly and offer quiet hear-hear's.
"It's not like your estates are the smallest, Lord Zamoyski, but very well."
Zamoyski snorts. "But I treat all noblemen as equals, Your Serene Highness." He cocks his head. "But let us step aside for the mighty prince," he says, gesturing to his men. "For the Lord knows we will not be so kind on other occasions."
They let your entourage through, staring daggers from your flanks.
You look for and find the yellow-black of the family's banner, rising high off a nice and large, pavilion-style tent. You enter to find your dear brothers and none other than the Crown Court Marshal Andrzej Zborowski, in the flesh at last, who rises from his seat and bows. Septimus smiles and gives a friendly nod as Krzysztof jumps up to greet you with a mildly indecorous, crushing hug. Christ Almighty, the man is strong. "Brother prince! You're here at last."
"Indeed-indeed, and I just had a venomous little parlay with Zamoyski."
Krzysztof laughs as Septimus and Zborowski start flapping their hands at the air, groaning. "Indeed, that viper is a nobody who wants to be somebody," says your eldest brother coolly.
"A striving little bastard, like his lordling army. Stirring things up, may well be trying to unseat us senators," adds Zborowski.
"He was very lofty, on about Liberty and fraternitas and justice and things," you say, "acting like we're petty kings and not worthy great houses."
"We're of the blood of Jagiełło and Witold's own sworn men," says Krzysztof, getting fiery. "Lord Zborowski – your father was Castellan of Kraków!"
"Highest senator in the land," nods the mustachioed man, dark as an Italian. "And his father a senator, too."
"That Jan Zamoyski thinks himself worthy of his father's – indeed admirable – merit. But his Liberty-speak is all a ploy. He just wants to be like us," you say, unable to not acknowledge your foe's position. It's not so simple.
The three men all speak at once, nodding in agreement, to the effect of: "and he'll do whatever it takes." That fox-man is dangerous.
You clap once. "Anyways!" you say, turning your attention to Lord Zborowski. "Where have you been, sir? I've been getting nothing but scant letters for the past half-year! Ignoring your suitor?" you half-joke.
"Well, that's what I'm here talking about," he says with a chuckle. "And I'll get to the point: we want a Habsburg, but we need Samuel home, and we need a guarantee of further protection of our confession."
You throw your hands in the air as if to say: anything you want! "And that can be arranged most easily, the Emperor's a tolerant man and this Maciej of his is eager to do anything to take a crack at ruling. As for Samuel…" you find your mouth failing you.
"Just because he's at the Transylvanian court doesn't mean you have to elect a Batory," says Krzysztof, turning to Zborowski.
"Of course not, of course not," he says. "But, in the eyes of the law, our brother is a murderer, and I've heard rumors that the Batory delegation would surely include him in the event of their Prince's election. I fear that only by proximity may he be brought back to us."
"I assure you, we'll find a way," Septimus says.
"Indeed!" you agree. "Indeed-indeed. I tell you, that lad will agree to anything we say, so long as we keep the Secretary out of his ear."
"Maybe so."
Our Lord Jesus Christ nor His Father cannot approve of all this… This scheming. Lying! You know that, and the Friar would've said that it's merely your lot in life, and that it'll compose a greater share of Sin than it would for lesser men, but it just doesn't feel right. And yet it's becoming easier and easier. It's a skill to practice, like swordsmanship or riding. What a grim one; you've got no taste for such things, but yet here you are. Perhaps it's best to accept it and make sure your Confessions are thorough each week, lest it all pass you by.
Thankfully, you find yourself next on horseback in Stężyca proper, being ushered into the finest lodgings in town.
"Forgive me for not rising to greet you," says the gold-jacketed old man, embroidered with floral motifs and crosses, no mitre to cover his liver-spotted pate. His white beard reaches down to his chest. "God has given me such trying knees."
You bow deeply before the Archbishop-Primate, Jakub Uchański. He is once more the Interrex. "Your Excellency. Praise be to the Lord Our God and His Son."
"To them and the Spirit goes all the glory," he replies. "I've heard you're a man of strong faith, Your Serene Highness."
"By His will it is so, and by the teachings of Saint Benedict," you say, forgetting your wrestling before such a pious man.
The Archbishop nods approvingly. "But God is putting our nations through a trial indeed."
"It is so," you agree.
"And there is one fear on my mind, as a servant of God and a man of the Commonwealth, as interrex: civil war. Lord Zamoyski and his… his people make me most nervous." He stares you down somewhat. "But so does Your Serene Highness' camp. I know you are a latecomer, but already have fistfights and even duels broken out. Nobody seems willing to back down."
A King in the pocket of the middling Crownlanders, of Princess Anna, even the more rabid Protestants – it would spell disaster for the diminishing Holy Church as much as it would for the Grand Duchy. The small lords could turn on the great ones, Lithuania and the Crown could find themselves at odds. And with Tatar and tyrant Iwan licking their lips. You must reveal the news, you think. "The young Archduke has boldly elected to come and visit this congress, knowing that by ancient law he may not approach the Convocated Sejm."
The Archbishop is silent for a moment. "That is a provocation."
"He must prove himself before our people," you say. "Your Excellency, he impressed myself and His Serene Highness the Prince Mikołaj, the one they call 'Orphan.' Archduke Maciej is fiery enough to rule, yet young enough to still listen to his elders."
"Well, you must understand that, as a representative of the Holy Church, I cannot support this venture more; might heart sings at the opportunities that may be afforded to the Faith. But I am a man of Polonia – and your Lithuania, too – and we need what is best for the realm. These are precarious times."
"Then I can only hope that he may be able to speak for himself, Your Excellency."
"Yes. May he."
The young Prince Janusz Ostrogski finds you in your personal tent around nightfall. "Your Serene Highness," he says, offering up a familiar handshake, "my apologies that I never joined you in Vienna."
You return the gesture. "Oh, it's fine – I take it your father called you off?"
"Indeed, and that's why I'm here in his stead."
You take a guess. "I don't understand: doesn't everyone know where he stands?"
"Yes, but it's for the same reason His Serene Highness' father isn't here: the chiefs of Lithuania and Ruthenia in the same place? That's enough to drive a proud Pole into hysterics. We cannot appear too united."
You hum. "But perhaps strength is what we need? Let the Crownlanders know that we Easterners won't be pushed around nor dissuaded? The Holy Church is with us, too."
"Your Holy Church," he reminds you. "And perhaps doing so would lend such an impression of strength," he says. "But it's on everybody's tongue that the Archduke will be coming to this meeting, and everybody's holding on to their caps and gripping their armrests and doing whatever else they must do to stay composed," he laughs. "Things have gotten very loud, very fast, and I reckon it's time for light touches."
"Maybe, maybe."
Or it's time to draw the sword and start hacking. Proverbially, of course. God willing.
The morning comes; you didn't sleep well. You're used to better accommodations than a tent, and the sounds of hunting dogs barking, drunken singing, and men fucking the camp followers kept you up.
But it's another day, and another assembly. Cheers and jeers pierce the air as Habsburg and Piast – as they've taken to calling themselves, invoking the Wheelwright – camps carry on fruitless debates. Rumors have begun to swirl that the Archduke has crossed the border, parading himself through Kraków to the tune of both cheers and vegetable-throwing, and that he may be only three or four or five days away from Stężyca.
You sit with your fellows of the senatorial class; only very few of the higher body have chosen to defect, though they're touted about by Zamoyski and friends. You decide to…
[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on some cynicism.
Make a pitch for a malleable yet energetic young King – emphasizing the former point. Intend to sway Piast voters with promises of (limited) reform and bountiful generosity coming from a half-captive seventeen-year-old. Emphasize, too, the access to Imperial coffers and armies, and a deepening of ties with the Empire.
[] Offer up a preambulatory speech, relying on faith and earnestness.
It likely won't win you any new friends, as you'll be almost bald-facedly speaking to your own supporters, but remind your magnate-heavy camp that God has allowed for there to exist nobles greater and lesser, and that there is no finer or stronger family in Christendom than the Habsburgs.
[] Bide your time.
Let the Archduke do the talking; men respect it when someone speaks just for himself.
[] Ride out to meet Maciej.
To give him some coaching; your brothers may or may not accompany you. While this would better prepare the Archduke for his hopefully-triumphant entry into Stężyca, a small scandal may arise from such open collusion.
Astra Myst
Do you want a wish?
- Location
- Milky Way Galaxy
[X] Ride out to meet Maciej.
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] Bide your time
I think by now most of the arguments for Matthias are already known, now is the time for Stanislaw and the Hapsburg Faction to hold their cards to their chests and to scope out which of the Piast Faction seems the flackiest, and to prepare for a showstopper next hand.
I think by now most of the arguments for Matthias are already known, now is the time for Stanislaw and the Hapsburg Faction to hold their cards to their chests and to scope out which of the Piast Faction seems the flackiest, and to prepare for a showstopper next hand.
[X] Bide your time.
We've done what we can so far without outright throwing a torch into the hornet's nest. Now it's up to Matthias to see if he will sink or if he will float. Now's the time to plan for the next move, instead of hurrying to the goalpost and alienating those who might otherwise be receptive to a Habsburg Monarch with our very bold moves thus far.
We've done what we can so far without outright throwing a torch into the hornet's nest. Now it's up to Matthias to see if he will sink or if he will float. Now's the time to plan for the next move, instead of hurrying to the goalpost and alienating those who might otherwise be receptive to a Habsburg Monarch with our very bold moves thus far.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] Bide your time.
[X] Bide your time.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
[X] Bide your time.
By the way, if anyone's interested, there's an old Polish TV miniseries about this exact time period and the events surrounding it. It's called Kanclerz (Chancellor), made in 1989. An abridged version also exists in the form of a TV movie called Żelazną ręką (With an Iron Hand). Basically it's about Bathory gaining the throne, Zamoyski's brilliant politics (the titular Chancellor) and the conflict between best buddies Samuel Zborowski (yes, our Samuel, an enemy of Zamoyski) and Rittmaster Szymon Mroczek (fictional main character, officer in Zamoyski's employ, very by-the-book, who gradually becomes disillusioned with the Commonwealth's anarchic Golden Liberty and wants to fix that decisively... hece the Iron Hand title for the TV movie).
I believe they can be found with English subtitles if you look hard enough.
By the way, if anyone's interested, there's an old Polish TV miniseries about this exact time period and the events surrounding it. It's called Kanclerz (Chancellor), made in 1989. An abridged version also exists in the form of a TV movie called Żelazną ręką (With an Iron Hand). Basically it's about Bathory gaining the throne, Zamoyski's brilliant politics (the titular Chancellor) and the conflict between best buddies Samuel Zborowski (yes, our Samuel, an enemy of Zamoyski) and Rittmaster Szymon Mroczek (fictional main character, officer in Zamoyski's employ, very by-the-book, who gradually becomes disillusioned with the Commonwealth's anarchic Golden Liberty and wants to fix that decisively... hece the Iron Hand title for the TV movie).
I believe they can be found with English subtitles if you look hard enough.