Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

Rolman · Jul 24, 2024

You quickly make it through the Archduke's gaggle of heralds and diplomats by virtue of your name and familiarity. It's a fine tent that he's staying in, naturally. Dimly-lit, yes, but with the earth covered in Turkish or Persian carpets, and with a real mattress in a bedframe. A tapestry of the Imperial eagle hangs between two posts. It's a bit similar to your own tent, in fact, unlike the lordlings roughing it under canvas, sleeping in bedrolls or even atop piles of straw.

"Your Serene Highness!" he clasps his hands with a smile, trying out his halting Polish. "Thank you for your questions earlier today. You let me show them all what I can do."

"Think nothing of it, sir," you say, dipping into a brief bow. It indeed felt like you needed a helping hand. "It is very good to see you again." You lower your voice somewhat. "But there's an issue."

"Well, what is it?" asks Maciej innocently.

"Do you recall how Lord Zamoyski emphasized the return of exiles as one of Prince Batory's election promises?"

"I do."

"Well, I reckon that that was pointed. There's this matter of one Samuel Zborowski–"

The Archduke lights up. "Ah, I know that name! Zborowski, that is, not this Samuel. Good supporters of mine, no?"

"Precisely," you say. You switch to French. "So that was very much directed at them. You see, Samuel killed a man in the presence of the Royal Person around a year ago, and was granted the mercy of exile without infamy, rather than his head on a pike. But his brothers miss him dearly."

"I see…"

"So, between that and, if I may be frank, the strength of your newfound opponent, I would recommend sending out a herald for the Crown Court Marshal, Andrzej." There's a silence. "That is, right now."

A few vaguely nervous minutes pass before Andrzej Zborowski is ushered into the Archducal tent. He stoops awkwardly through its open flap, eyes shifting around, looking bird-like as ever. He drops to a knee. "Ave Archidux magnus," he says, careful to not address him too subserviently; he rises. "What a pleasure it is to be called upon by you."

"Your brother will come home, my lord," Maciej blurts out in Polish, before switching to Latin. "I will promise it to you here and now. I will request Lord Samuel come home by name, should I be elected King." He raises a hand and says in Polish: "to God and upon my family's honor do I swear it."

Zborowski nods, though his face looks almost perplexed. You try to look for his mouth beneath his pointy mustache and can't quite find it in this low light. "Thank you, my lord, this is marvelous to hear. I'll be sure to inform my brothers. Although I do have some bad news regarding them."

"What is it?" both you and Maciej ask.

"Well, that Stefan Batory is a mighty man indeed. My brother, Piotr, has begun to openly waver in support for the lord Archduke," he says, gesturing at Maciej. "He's concerned about inexperience first and Western tyranny second. He's voivode, er, ah, that is, a palatinus, of two of our most important voivodeships, or palatinates: Sandomierz and Kraków," he explains. "We're trying to talk some sense into him, you see, but, well, we're a Reformed family as well and so…"

"Uphill battle," you chime in.

"Uphill battle," Zborowski repeats.

"I see," says Maciej, now suddenly looking grave. "Do… Do you reckon I should stay in the country for the time being?"

"I think you've said your piece," you say, "anything more and you'd appear an interloper."

"Very well, I believe you, but I'll leave my diplomats behind."

"That would be prudent," says Zborowski, "at this rate, we'll be needing a lobby." He sighs. "Again, I am very grateful for your promise, lord Archduke. But at least one of my brothers may be changing coats – I will do what I can to sway him back to our side, but…"

"No matter," says a nonplussed Maciej. "If man fails, I leave it to God."

Easy for him to say. There isn't a civil war on the line for him – he gets to stay at home, certainly enjoying some governorship or bishopric come time for his inheritance, should his bid fail.

"I recommend you make some counter-offers to what the Prince of Transylvania promises to bring. See if you can't open up your father's coffers," you say frankly.

"I'll consult with him once I'm home," replies the Archduke. "I'm sure the assets of my House will be available. After all, we need Imperial soldiers to best the Muscovites."

"And, praise be to Christ, may they be offered up to our service," says Zborowski. "I'll try and talk some sense into Piotr. But I thought you should know, my lord." He turns to you. "As should you, Your Serene Highness." He sounds quite serious. "Stefan Batory has made many waver. Many were prepared for a Silesian of some sort, not to be taken too seriously, but this man is cut from a different cloth."

"Ugh," you groan. "Lord knows how his delegates will shake things up, once they get here."

"I'll leave good men here!" says Maciej, though you can sense a certain faltering in his upbeat tone. "They will speak for me in my absence."

"Your speech was a fine thing," says Zborowski. "A bold move by a bold candidate – you have earned all our respect." May he not be brownnosing – you don't think he is.

But nothing can change the fact that Prince Batory is formidable indeed. As the late spring blossoms into summer with thunderstorms and greener trees, the conference at Stężyca disbands in a state of obvious disunity. Two compelling candidates stand against each other, each with his own obvious advantages – only the Archduke, worryingly, seems to come with reservations for many. It will take much to stem the tide of the Transylvanian, you fear, though the Senat and clergy – including the Interrex, still stand for the Habsburgs. And that's very, very worrying: what happens when the great want one thing, and the small want another? The Sejm shall convene come October, declares Archbishop Uchański, with just around a month of decisionmaking time. The interregnum must be rectified, before the realm's enemies may make a move.

It's very heavy, but you try to get your mind off it and merely enjoy the weather. You head for Kodeń on the Crownland-Lithuanian border to meet with your father-in-law and his sons, to allow Mariana to see her family for the first time in, well, too long. Falconry and feasting, praise be to God – for this is something He offers too, perhaps as a gift rather than a temptation. Who's really to say? It takes you a while to settle back into that kind of life, though. You'll need a new confessor sometime soon, it feels.

But that can wait, even as John's Nativity passes and the summer grows muggier and hotter. You even play cards with Marszowski or, well, it was meant to be a game of cards. What brings you out of the happy haze is the arrival of a courier at the beginning of July, as you're on the road from Kodeń to Wilno.

"Your Serene Highness!" he says with a Ruthenian accent, almost throwing himself out of the saddle. "The heathens are attacking all along the Southern border! Prince Ostrogski sends a call for aid to all Lithuania."

You can't get much more information than that, besides rumors that columns of terrified peasants are heading northwards, having lost many to slaughter and slavery, and that the established Zaporozhians are overwhelmed and confined to their island-fortresses on the Dniepr. You recall that just four years ago the Tatars burned mighty Moskwa to the ground, that their Khan is a most fearsome foe, and that he can field an army in the tens of thousands. Is this merely a fiercer than average raiding season, or a downright invasion? There are Crimean ambassadors at Warszawa and Kraków, but it's not like you're close enough to try and find anything out.

You make a calculus, too, put some pieces together: this will surely impact the election. Ruthenian lords rarely ever need outside help to handle the summer raids – something of this magnitude could see areas closer to the Crownland core threatened, perhaps as deep as Podolia or Volhynia. Which, of course, will make people start worrying about Bełz and Lwów. You've seen how routs start before, how panic is contagious, even if the situation is under control. A clamor may rise up for a speedy Convocation and a quicker consensus, and it's hard to decide now if panicked and defense-minded men will want the steady hand of Batory or the Western arms and aid of the Archduke.

You decide to…

[] Continue onward to Wilno in hopes of finding Father and your brothers.

Although it will eat up a good deal of time, you don't want to act out of line, nor do you want to try to stem a Tatar assault with subpar troops. You will be, if ordered to head South, granted a detachment of the Radziwiłł private army, with the opportunity to augment said forces on the way. You will have less choice in the composition of your own forces, but their quality and perhaps quantity will be higher.

[] Hurry southward, hiring mercenaries and opportunists on the way.

This cannot wait! Not in an Interregnum; the sooner the Tatars are thrown back and the crisis resolved, the more time is bought to sway men to Maciej. Your name and purse will do the talking, and by the time you make it to Kijów you ought to have some sort of force assembled. Not to mention, you would make quite an impression on Prince Ostrogski and the other Southern Ruthenians. You will choose your forces in a brief interlude post.

[] Stay where you are, dispatching messengers in all directions.

It'll take a week or ten days or so, but you're not even sure if this is war or not at this point. For all you know, it would be wiser to return to the Crownlands and appeal to the Interrex for royal troops, or to join up with a larger host. Meanwhile, eastbound messengers will get you in touch with at least some family members, and the southbound ones – may God preserve them – can provide updates on the situation.

Rolman · Jul 24, 2024

Sunlight dances on the canopy above, as the forest lets out a sigh at the cooling wind passing through its oaks and maples, its ash trees and birches and pines. You've forgotten how much you love birds and the sight and sound of them. They must be God's own chorus, the way they sing, and the way they soar – such a spectacle!

Which is why you can't wait to have her on your gauntlet; you haven't picked out a name for her yet, but she's a fine, fine gift from Mariana's father and brothers. The other woman in your life, perhaps, eh? The attendants ride more than a few paces back, a pair of hooded goshawks between them. A gaggle of flusher dogs trail behind.

They're fine birds for those who are not accomplished in the art of falconry – like you and Mariana, frankly. A true falcon may as well be a human being, looking about with her smart eyes, selective of what she brings down and always in resistance against her hood. A goshawk, on the other hand, is like a dog: you send her out, and she brings you back something. Simple as that. Loyal to the fist – just the fist, the perch, for the bird could give a damn about you, you think. Or, well, there's an agreement, like between lord and servant. There's something beautiful in that.

"You look at those birds how you ought to look at me," Mariana snorts. "Teasing, teasing." You turn your head to find that she's looking back at you from atop her horse. "Alright, I've got to say it." She sounds firm, yet smiles.

"What?"

"I'm not quite sure what's gotten into you, Stanisław," she says. "I'm loving it, of course, but – I get to see my family again for the first time since we've married, and you've been feeding me date-almond pies for about three weeks."

"I had my chef learn King Rudolf's cook's recipes," you explain, perhaps vaguely trying to deflect, you're not sure. "I hope our father and your brothers enjoyed it, too."

"I thought I recognized them from Prague! And they most certainly did. The Italian reds, too!" she laughs. "But it's unlike you."

"Unlike me? Well, I've changed a good bit since we married, haven't I?" You're no fool to your own travails, after all. You spur your horse to ride up next to the Princess. "Maybe I'm trying to be more goshawk and less falcon," you chuckle.

"Alright, what's that supposed to–"

There's a meadow coming up. "Our birds, please!" you call back to the attendants, who ride up with haste and carefully deposit the hooded goshawks onto you and Mariana's gauntlets; you grip hard onto the jesses, suddenly very aware that you haven't held a bird since France, if you had to guess.

You breathe deep and take in the field, all shot through with cornflowers and dandelions, daisies and thistles and clovers. "God!" you cry out, "we'll have some good hares in here. Squirrels. Maybe even grouse, if we're lucky." You feel a little crazy. Drunk, almost, but in a good way. "Take a look at that sky, Mariana!" Marian blue, stretching endlessly, scattered with cotton balls.

"It's a very good sky," she replies flatly; you sniff out traces of amusement. "Shall we send in the dogs?"

"Yes," you reply. "Dogs!" you call out.

The barking mass is deployed, running with well-trained purpose into the wildflowers and weeds. Songbirds begin to take flight – something bigger, too. "A pheasant?" asks Mariana, hastily removing her goshawk's hood. The flying thing is sleek and brown and big – it must be one.

Her goshawk takes flight without the need of a call-word, bells tied to her jesses ringing; you just barely catch a glimpse of her yolk-gold eyes. "Oh-oh-oh," you say, "that's good, that's good. She's hungry."

She flies high, high up, higher than any building you've seen, higher than Notre-Dame or Wawel's towers. Were she bigger, she'd blot out the sun, and you shield your eyes to try to keep track of her. You see her form plunge down from the brilliant orb, all compressed like musket shot or an arrow, and slam into the pheasant's form, tumbling to the ground together in a twisted mass. Both of you exclaim, and the attendants clap.

A few moments pass. The meadow sways. The goshawk doesn't arise from the tall grass. Slightly odd, but perhaps she's just enjoying her kill. You hand your own bird back to the attendants and ride out with Mariana.

You find her on the ground, trying to eat her kill but clearly not feeling right. One look at her splayed-out wing makes it clear: "broken feathers," you say. "She must've landed hard."

Mariana dismounts with haste. "Poor thing, poor thing," she says, and looks up at you. "That's all it takes, huh? Just a couple broken feathers and she can't fly anymore."

You reckon she's being rhetorical to some degree; you nod. "Praise God for making such mechanisms of beasts," you say, "like… like water-clocks. She flies faster than any horse could gallop, faster than an arrow – only shot flies faster than she."

"Indeed, she's powerful. But sensitive." She gingerly pokes at the bleeding quills, making the goshawk flinch and squawk. "She overexerted herself."

"Or maybe it was just bad luck," you reply, "a slip of the talon, or… It's that easy for a man to lose a duel. He can know what he's doing and still lose." You set your mind to solutions. "She'll need an imping, a good imping. The attendants will know what to do. It's not broken, is it?"

Mariana tenderly prods about the wing. "No – I wouldn't know – but I don't think so."

"Well, this ruins things a little," you say. "And just when we were starting up!"

Mariana thinks. "We've still got another bird."

"Why haven't we called up the attendants yet?" you ask, wondering aloud.

"I just wish we could heal her ourselves."

"A sensitive thing."

"Indeed."

The two of you lock eyes. "Do you reckon you felt like her?" Mariana asks.

"Is now the– huh?"

"You dove, as your Lord commanded you," she points up to heaven. "And you found your quarry and broke some feathers on the way."

"You're getting poetic on me?" you laugh. It's good to feel closer again.

"Answer me!"

"Hm," you place a hand to your chin, taking in the wounded bird. "I don't think I felt commanded, is the thing, till I met the Friar. It's as if I was told in my mew how best to maintain my feathers after the Most High restored them with His touch."

A quizzical look from your wife. "But you said yourself that the Friar warned you against… that rigidness, let's say – and more than once."

"Well, a bird can pick open its own wounds, can't it?" you say, scratching at your neck. "But – hey! Hey now. It's Sin to compare Man to mere animals."

"I'm being philosophical, that's all, one of your humanists!"

"I'm no goshawk, though: I am a servant to something much greater than myself," you say, vaguely offended, but mainly stimulated. "We've really got to do something about her," you say, looking at the bird, still flaccidly trying to devour her prey, trying to spite her pain.

"Men!" calls out Mariana to the attendants, who begin to ride toward you two. "All it takes is to get a little bit of help," she smiles. "God will heal this bird's wounds, but it's men who'll mend it." She strides over to you, looking up at you, and reaches up to tap your nose. "That nose got set by a medicus." She smiles. "Bear that in mind, my prince."

Rolman · Jul 24, 2024

Mariana's right. Maybe she was always right.

You swing the door open, knowing it'll cause a bit of theater but wanting to avoid such completely; you can't quite help yourself, you suppose. "Sir Andrzej Marszowski," you say, as if about to issue orders, which you do: "I want to throw dice with you."

"What?" he says, looking up from his flagon of gorzała. "Ah, well, certainly, Your Serene Highness, eh… What shall we play?"

"You have your set with you, no?" you ask, not looking for an answer.

"Ehm, yes, cards and dice, an Italian set of cards."

"Then let us play primus! Not dice, primus. Teach me," you say, turning your mind instead to cards at his mention of them.

"Well… We ought to have van Gistel and one of the manservants in here," says Marszowski. "But it can be just Your Serene Highness and I," he says, removing twelve cards from the deck. "Roman rules."

"Alright…"

"So, we'd place our bets and then the dealer gets the first card," he says, placing one down before himself, and then one to you. "We do this til we've both got four cards." He finishes dealing. "Now, check your cards."

Wow! All four are of the suit of coins. You tell Marszowski such.

"Ah! Wow. A fluxus. Got me beat. What's your high card?"

"Queen of coins," you reply.

"Absolutely got me beat." He furrows his brow. "Hey now, I can't help but ask, Your Serene Highness: it's been years since we've thrown dice together, and we've never played cards."

"I…" what are the words? "I'm trying to rediscover old things, but in a more godly and healthy way."

"But this is a sin."

"But do you think it's a sin?"

Marszowski swishes his tongue around his closed mouth, crimping his brow. "You know I'm not a praying man…"

"Don't dodge the question."

He plaps his hands down onto his thighs. "I don't know. I don't know anything," he says. "We walk this beautiful Earth and are told that a sip of liquor, the touch of a woman, the thrill of a dice game – that is all sin. Now, I don't think that we all sprung up out of nothing but…"

"You wonder why God has decreed such things?"

"Frankly — yes. Especially when we live in such coldness, with illness and death and murder all about." Whatever liquor in him has likely left his system suddenly, and he doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've killed at least eight or ten men in my day, Your Serene Highness—"

"'Lord prince,' again, please."

His face betrays nothing. "Lord prince. But, yes, a good many kills to my name, and, well…" Now he shows something. "I suppose it's already over me. I was raised Reformed, you see, and so…"

"You're not electus, you reckon?"

"No. No, I'm not, so I'm here for today before I suffer, should the Pit be real."

You were always a little too young to talk to him on these matters. Then, when you were older: too busy. "You're not even sure if the Lord is real?"

"I have yet to be satisfied with any churchman's answer for the existence of suffering in the world. I believe we have souls, I suppose, for how are we different from animals unless…"

You exhale through your nose, trying to be subtle. This rejection of Grace and its cultivation, an unwillingness to fight against the tide of evil through good works, invocation of the Saints, and lots of prayer. Even people of other confessions can be pious, in their way. And yet you feel not as if you have a duty to try and bring him to the Holy Church — or to any kind of faith for that matter — only to understand, and listen to your old fencing master for the first time in what feels like years.

"So, then, you believe in what?" you ask. "I don't mean that as an accusation."

Marszowski hums. "Love, I suppose, but not God's love, frankly. Love between brothers in arms, love between lord and master, man and woman. I once even knew a man who loved a man!"

Like a, a… "A sodomite?"

"Oh yes, lord prince," he says, unperturbed. "Whatever Hell they may be bound for, whatever it does to their manhood — they love as anyone else. And that's something I can at least respect." He leans back in his seat. "See, I reckon if God's turned a blind eye to it all, then all we've got is each other."

You swallow. "I don't know if I can agree," you say, "I think there are very, very defined rules. I think we have a sacred duty to try and understand the will of God and put it into action. It's the work of the Church Fathers and the scholar-Saints," you say, thinking of Aquinas and Benedict and Augustine. "Venerable work, but… maybe I understand your position."

You tell him of your excursion with Mariana, of the closeness you feel now, long-dormant, of the coexistence of faith in God and faith in the world. Marszowski nods along.

"She died, you know, when you were in France," says your fencing master, almost deadpan.

A flash passes through you; you almost tense up at the realization. Lady Marszowski! They were never fond of each other, but… "I'm sorry." You splutter a bit. "Good God, I'm sorry, I never—"

"It's nothing, lord prince. We were near-separated anyways," he sighs. "I haven't had a lady in I don't know how long. Not even paying for one."

That's a shock. "Why not?"

Marszowski shrugs. "Suppose a bit of the melancholia?"

"I can understand that!" you chuckle.

"It's just hard, I suppose. You reach a certain age and you get a want for heirs. Not for bloodline or patrimony or being fruitful and multiplying or anything like that."

You feel your voice soften. Your face, too. "But you raised me up, Sir Marszowski. Papa Chevalier, remember?"

He shrugs again. You've never seen him so… sheepish? "And now you're grown, and I'm merely a lieutenant — and I never expected anything more, I don't think, but…" He smiles a wry smile. "Sneaking you gorzała, bopping you with the training swords — 'balance on that bucket, little prince!'"

"I suppose things change a good bit," you say, struggling for words for a reason you can't quite explain. "We're not like serfs, living in the same place with the same people until we die. No rhythm to our seasons," you muse. You see the face of old Tatjana the maid. Your gaze casts down to the tabletop, unplayed cards before you. That's why you came here, you remember. You look up at Sir Marszowski; he looks tranquil, almost, or like he's daydreaming.

"We should go hunting," you say. "Falconing with Mariana the other day was the first time I've let myself have fun outdoors in a long, long time."

"The Princess is a fine young lady," replies Marszowski. "But you didn't enjoy your garden at Orsza?"

"I did, I did. But that wasn't fun. That was more of a necessity."

"What… dare I ask, lord prince…"

You extend a hand: please.

"Have you lost your faith all of a sudden?"

"No. Not at all," you say. Did you say that too quickly? Nevermind. "It just turned into a matter of pride — itself Sin, of course — I wanted to prove to myself that I could give up everything for God." You smile. "But I didn't take some sort of vow, now did I?"

You explain it to him, carefully yet with expressive hands: "this pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" as Mariana said, still etched upon your mind. How you'd give up meat and forget to give alms, how you'd wear wool undergarments as you politicked. "I was being like a Pharisee," you conclude, "it takes more than mere zealotry to make it to Heaven. I must be myself, and put the words of the Lord and His Saints into deed. I can't just ape something I'm not."

Marszowski grins. "So now you want to learn how to play primus?" he teases. "I remember how we used to shoot dice at Wilno, back when you enjoyed a good drink."

Back when I was out of control.

"Alright, firstly, I wasn't going to play with stakes," you laugh. "I'm deviating from Benedict's Rule somewhat, it's true, but here's the thing: with my title and my money, I can do much more than keep a little garden." You snort, amused with this mental image: "I reckon that it's alright to add some weight to the sinful end of the scale so long as I counterbalance it with nothing but lead on the side of piety and virtue."

You tell him your ideas, like buying printing presses for proper Latin bibles, converting Reformed peasants, or funding a Jesuit college once Father is gone (or somehow permits it). "And I realized: what's the harm with some ludes, as Saint Benedict would call them, when I can also do all of that? Truly, truly change the world in the name of God."

Marszowski shakes his head. "I wish I had your faith, lord prince. It must be a soaring sensation to know that you're saved, and that there's yet more you can do to perfect yourself, save others."

"It's never too late, Sir Marszowski, even within the bounds of your confession can you cultivate faith and spread it, however misguided I may find Reformation." You think a little. "It's about loving our fellow man, looking out for each other's souls. I hate that I've killed and maimed," you say.

"And that does not make you a craven," says Marszowski, almost fiery. "Man was born to be merry, says I, and to hold each other close through the night."

"And that way we may be more similar than different, even if it comes from different places," you grin. "Now — shall you teach me primus?"

"With pleasure, lord prince."

Devildog · Jul 24, 2024

Rolman, you spoil us. Three posts, back to back to back. So much to dissect! So much to decide!

I'm glad that our Stanislaw is finding time to enjoy the pleasures of life without beating himself up over it all. After such a strained relationship with our two closest people, Mariana and Marszowski, we seem to be on the mend once more! It's these kind of releases thats needed when you're in such high power politics that require stressful decisions, head-ache inducing meetings between the different players, and the intrigues that comes with trying to sway the course of Sister-Kingdoms.

Lets hope this kinda balances out the workload because I, for one, do have a vote in regards to the situation with the Crimeans raiding northward...

[X] Hurry southward, hiring mercenaries and opportunists on the way.

Ideally, I'd advocate for combining the southward defense and army-hiring alongside also sending messengers to spread word and muster support. But decisive action is needed. We cannot dally on this, and it'll be high risk and high reward to see how it goes. Because a victory against the Tatars will give us an excellent base of support and firmly sway the Ruthenians to our side. Maybe also give us a platform to sway over the Crownlanders as well, as Matthias has given a very good, firm answer to these types of raids, and well... If we manage to win a battle, we can use the fame and noteriety that comes with it as a platform to advocate for Maciej.

That is my reasoning. It's a very near thing, but there isn't a option that combines messengers/runners alongside moving southward and building a force. It'll be very high risk, but also high reward if it works. And we need bold action if we're to take the lead in the elections, me feels. Thoughts on this?

Noroboro · Jul 24, 2024

[X] Hurry southward, hiring mercenaries and opportunists on the way.

No time to waste, we must defend out country.

bookwyrm · Jul 25, 2024

There's also a fair risk that hurrying southwards would be in of itself a form of panic- a newly assembled motley of brigands and unemployed lordlings might get to Ruthenia quickly, but perhaps not as an effective force able to maneuver at the tempo of the Tatars. Taking more time might truly be necessary to be able to engage them if the Khanate is out in force. I really think Stanislaw cannot afford to choose wrong here, and would be better served waiting to find out where he can link up with other forces.

[X] Stay where you are, dispatching messengers in all directions.

Bruhmoment · Jul 25, 2024