JARLSBERG CASTLE

LIVONIA, SWEDISH EMPIRE

May it please Your Majesty,

It is my great honor and pleasure to inform you that, through our strength of arms, cunning, and the Grace of God, your loyal servants have managed to wrest power from the evil Swedes that occupied Jarlsberg Castle in Livonia.

The castle’s armory and larder are fully stocked, and only the least bit of damage was sustained to the building during the assault.

I capture this castle in your name and for sacred Poland’s lost honor. We shall take back the Swedish crown from that Satan-worshipping usurper Gustavus Adolphus and take back what is yours by divine right. Our defeat at Gorzno will be avenged.

If your majesty wills it, I humbly request that a grand army be assembled so we may take advantage of this surprise and drive the Swedes back to where they belong.

I remain your humble servant,

Colonel Jan Casimir

“What do you think, Radny Fegelein? Is it too short? Maybe it could use a little more embellishment?” said Colonel Jan Casimir as he poured more mead into his wine glass. The colonel was well-spoken, refined, and genteel, but the fact that he insisted on drinking mead out of a wine glass made Ratsherr Fegelein feel uneasy. He was also not used to being called “radny”, the Polish word for a man of his position.

Fegelein sat at his writing desk, taking dictation from Colonel Casimir as he slowly paced around Greve Olaf Stenbock’s old council hall, which he had turned into his war room. The paintings of the greve and his family had been removed and neatly put away, replaced with maps and Polish banners. Muster rolls of Polish regular regiments, Lithuanian troops, and Tatar mercenaries sat in well-ordered stacks on the greve’s old desk. The councilman and the colonel spoke to each other in German, which was Casimir’s way of conceding to Fegelein’s lack of knowledge in Polish.

“The letter is perfect, your lordship.” Fegelein replied, not wishing to offend.

Colonel Casimir took a sip of mead and furrowed his brow, “This is excellent mead. Now then, sir, just because you are held captive here does not mean that you cannot criticize. You are a man of letters and I respect your opinion greatly. I am but a simple soldier. Are you absolutely certain that this letter is worthy of the king of Poland?”

“Well…” Fegelein said softly. He noticed the colonel raise his eyebrows, “Perhaps you can mention how you took the castle? It would paint you in a heroic light.”

Casimir nodded his approval, “Excellent point. Write that down. Mention how I took the defenders by surprise, and how the Tatars… no, that would make them look too important. Let us leave that out. Perhaps we can finish this later.”

The sound of Fegelein’s pen scribbling on parchment stopped.

“It does remind me, though, of something equally important. We need to write to that heathen so he can send us reinforcements.”

“Heathen, your lordship?”

“Ah, yes, I never spoke about him at length. Imran Bey is his name. That is all you need to know. Could you prepare another blank sheet of parchment, please?”

As Fegelein carefully put away his letter to the Polish king, he wondered why a Christian such as Casimir would ever stoop to colluding with a heathen. He believed the letter he was about to write was going to reveal the answer to him. Taking a fresh sheet out of one of his desk drawers, Fegelein dipped his pen into his inkpot and began to write.

“Thank you,” said Casimir, clearing his throat. “May the greetings of God the most gracious and merciful be upon you, oh noble Turk.”

Fegelein’s eyes widened at the mention of the Turks. They were the largest empire in the known world, and according to popular opinion, could crush Poland and Sweden both like insects. The only thing that stopped them from doing so was their war in Iraq, which they were winning decisively.

Casimir paused to think, twirling his mustache with his finger, then continued, “The Tatars that you hired out to us were brave and brutal fighters who were instrumental in the key victory we achieved at Jarlsberg. That being said, the treasure stores of the castle are now open, and the other half of your promised remuneration may now be collected. I look forward to dining with you again. Yours in Christ, Colonel Jan Casimir. Wait, no, I am sorry, do not write that last part down. Change it to yours in God instead. We cannot afford religious tension in such an uneasy alliance.”

Fegelein frowned in confusion as he scribbled on the parchment. The letter still gave him no clue as to why a Muslim would ever agree to aid his bitter Christian enemy.

“As for the letter to the king regarding the battle of Jarlsberg, I trust you to write in all the details of the assault. After all, you were there. I remember you. You should have seen your face when I rode into the castle.” Casimir said with a hearty chuckle.

Fegelein returned the laugh politely, although he recalled the event quite differently. The sight of a large armed man staring down upon him from the top of a war horse was not a memory he wished to treasure.

Escape had been the foremost thought on Fegelein’s mind ever since the castle was taken, but the only escape plan he had was to hide in a secret cellar room and escape during the night – which was now impossible since Colonel Casimir had patrols all around the castle at all hours and there was always someone in the cellar drinking the castle’s good wine.

It also did not help that he was too frightened to wash his soiled breeches, since Tatars had occupied the servants’ quarters. The washerwomen could not do any laundry if they were being raped all the time.

“I am going to pay a visit to young Lady Crista,” said the colonel as he threw on his leopard skin cloak, “Be very careful with that letter to the king, and remember we Poles say Zygmunt III Wasa, not Sigismund. Imagine the embarrassment of sending him a letter as if I were a Swede. Until we meet again, Radny Fegelein.”

As soon as Casimir shut the door, Fegelein quickly pulled out another smaller piece of parchment and scribbled a message,

Jarlsberg Castle fallen. Polish, Lithuanian, Tatar troops occupying. Crista is alive. Polish commander has sent word to King Sigismund and is colluding with Turks. Send help immediately!

F.

Rolling it up, he made his way to a gilded cage sitting near a window in the corner of the room, where a small white dove lay cooing. Fegelein had managed to convince the colonel that this was his pet and not a carrier pigeon like all the others that had been killed and eaten. It helped that the bird was a white dove and not a gray homing pigeon like all the others. In reality, though, the dove was a special bird meant for communicating with Greve Stenbock’s bank in Riga, where he was no doubt securing funds to hire troops to take back his home. Fegelein gingerly inserted the message into a capsule that he placed on the dove’s feet and released it out the window.

“Crista is not in her room.” Casimir said as he peeked his head through a half-opened door.

Fegelein shrieked at the sound of his voice.

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“You scream like an old woman. I apologize for frightening you. Do you know where I could find her?”

“Check the library.” Fegelein replied with a stutter.

“Ah, yes, how silly of me to forget, thank you. Do widzenia.” Casimir said as he silently closed the door. Fegelein’s heart raced as he put a cloth over the birdcage.

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Crista sat with Sister Margret in the castle library. She dreaded walking through the hallways, now constantly patrolled by Polish soldiers.

The courtyard was worse. The screaming of the washerwomen and her younger handmaidens as they were raped by the soldiers that occupied the castle was unbearable to her. She was lucky since Casimir ordered that no one should touch her under penalty of death. A small consolation this was, since her home was no longer her home, her handmaidens and the other female servants had been turned into sex slaves, there was a massive grave pit outside the walls that reeked of death, and her horse, Sigfrid, had been shot for kicking someone in the face when he tried to mount him. Several of the servants had already attempted taking their own lives to get away from what was rapidly becoming hell on earth.

Crista tried to forget about the reality of things by escaping into her books during her morning fika. Her hands quivered as she tried in vain to immerse herself in the book she held in her hands: a copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the original language. She had chosen poorly. The bitter taste of her coffee only seemed to emphasize the predicament she was in. She usually drank it with a lot of sugar, but the sugar was in the larder, and the Tatars were using heaps of it to blend with calamus roots to make a strange dessert from their land.

Margret, meanwhile, wondered if this were some sort of punishment from God for deserting Holy Mother Church. She was even considering returning to the fold since the Polish were Catholic and would not look too kindly on a disgraced nun, that is, if they ever found out.

The hard rapping of knuckles on the library’s oak door disturbed their quiet contemplation.

“Come in.” Crista said in Swedish, hoping that it was one of the remaining castle staff that still kept their sanity.

“I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Colonel Casimir in Polish.

“Even if you were, your grace,” Crista replied, switching to Polish, “I doubt anything I would say could prevent you from entering.”

Casimir opened the door but did not enter, instead choosing to stand in the doorway, resting his shoulder against the frame.

“May I come in, your ladyship?” he said with a smirk.

Crista looked at him with an icy glare but gestured for him to enter nonetheless. Sister Margret simply sat where she was, scowling at the colonel, who ignored her.

“How may I be of service to your grace?” Crista said in an annoyed but nervous tone.

“I need nothing in particular. I just came to see how you were faring.”

“I am well, and alive, unlike Anna.”

“Who?” Casimir said, furrowing his brow.

“Anna was one of my handmaidens. You see, your grace, when you allowed your men to do as they wished with the castle staff, with all the looting…” Crista paused, taking a deep sip of her coffee, “and the rape, your grace, Anna’s dreams were crushed. You ruined her wedding.”

“What wedding?” Casimir scoffed, “I saw no tapestries or flowers or wedding vestments when we went through the castle stores.”

“That is because, your grace, Anna is… what was the word for bondeflicka in your language… peasant? Ah, yes, chłop.”

“That is unfortunate, your ladyship, but I can assure you that I did not directly order her death. I specifically told my men that by killing the peasantry, they would be ruining this manor’s economy. We want to present his majesty with a flourishing estate, not a desolate ruin.”

“Oh, your men did not kill her, they…”

Sister Margret slammed her fist on the table, interrupting her lady, “They tore the flower of her womanhood from her before her husband had a chance to enjoy the bouquet!”

Casimir sneered at the old woman and drew his mace from the steel frog on his hip, placing it on the table with a loud thud. Pointing his finger at her as if he was accusing a small child, he said, “This is your only warning.” and attempted to continue the conversation with Crista. “Before we were so rudely interrupted, you are accusing my men of raping and killing your peasant girl handmaiden, yes?”

Crista nodded silently and took another sip of her coffee.

“You should know, ladyship, that my men had been promised the opportunity to loot and raid, and I am simply fulfilling my promise to them. The alternative would be… ugly.”

“Colonel, there are few things uglier than watching my friends fling themselves off of the castle balcony simply because they do not wish to bear the children of monsters.”

“The alternative is mutiny and anarchy.” Casimir replied, deepening his scowl, “An army that has been betrayed will rapidly turn into a storm of swords and violence. I am averting the wholesale slaughter and destruction of everything in this castle. Cannot you see I am trying to keep you safe?”

Crista furrowed her brow at him and asked, “Yes, why is that exactly? What use do I have to you, colonel, besides serving as your pretty little war trophy?” Crista was trying her very best not to scream at him.

Casimir’s expression eased. He paused, curling his mustache thoughtfully. “I recall you saying that your father, the lord of the castle, was out hunting when I liberated this place? Well, it is logical to assume that he will gather allies and march on Jarlsberg to take it from me. You are my insurance.”

“So you are expecting my father to refuse to lay siege to his home because his beloved little girl is trapped within?”

“Precisely. You should thank me for not letting you starve to death.”

“And I suppose I should also be thankful for the screams and wailing I hear every night that come from the castle courtyard? What about the suicides, colonel? Did you know that my people would rather kill themselves than be touched by your dogs?”

Casimir rubbed his temples in frustration. “I told you already. I must appease my men. I do not want them rampaging through the countryside like common brigands.”

“And how long will you have to appease them for? Weeks? Months? An entire year?”

“I have asked for reinforcements from my king. Once they arrive, we will continue our noble campaign into the rest of your empire so we can put the Swedish crown back where it belongs, on the head of my king.”

“This is your plan?” Crista said, confused, “Our kingdoms signed a peace treaty just last year and you already want to break it! King Sigismund will march on you and crush you as a rebel and a traitor!”

Casimir snarled raising his voice, “King Zygmunt would do no such thing! The Swedish crown is his by divine right, and I, his loyal servant, am helping him recover it, peace treaty be damned!”

Crista rose from her seat, “Help? You will be the death of your king! The wrath of every kingdom in the west will descend on the fool king that broke a peace treaty after just one year!”

Without warning, Casimir’s open hand struck Crista on the cheek, causing her to collapse on the floor, bleeding from her mouth.

Sister Margret, enraged that this defiler of women would add further insult to her lady, flew to Casimir and struck him in the face with a slap of her own.

Casimir barely flinched and picked up his mace from the table. Despite her bravery, Sister Margret received a mace blow to her face, scattering her teeth all over the library floor and crushing her skull, killing her.

Crista, blood still dripping from her lips, picked herself up and ran over to her aged tutor.

“Margret? Can you hear me? Wake up!” she cried out to her old friend in Swedish as tears began to well up in her eyes.

Margret lay silent on the cold, hard floor as the blood from her head wound began to create a puddle around her.

Casimir dusted his hands off and murmured, “I am sorry it could not be helped. I will send someone to clean this up. In the future, it would be best for you to remember not to mock my king.”

With this, he excused himself and left the room, leaving Crista sobbing over Sister Margret’s body behind him.

ROYAL CASTLE

WARSAW, POLAND

The weary King Sigismund III Vasa sat on his richly decorated throne as he and his Grand Crown Hetman, Stanislaw Koniecpolski, discussed the future of the kingdom over a game of chess.

“You were wise to sue the Swedes for peace, majesty,” said Koniecpolski, gingerly moving his pawn.

“But at what cost? We have lost Riga and Livonia and our most important Baltic ports to the Protestants, and they force us to pay a tax on our trade in the Baltic? It is as if all our brave boys died for nothing.” Sigismund wheezed. After his assassination attempt some years ago, he was no longer in the best of health. He thought for a moment and mirrored Koniecpolski’s move.

“We must remember our role, majesty, as the guardians of Christianity in Europe. The Turkish wolf grows hungry as he sees the fire that rages in Europe. While the Holy Roman Emperor struggles to contain his squabbling heretic states..."

“We know,” Sigismund interrupted, “The Turks will be waiting for the opportunity to strike and we Poles have the thankless task of being the wall which they break upon.”

“Precisely, majesty. An end to the war will allow us to spend time recuperating and getting ready to defend ourselves against that devil Sultan Murad. Once he is done conquering Iraq, he will doubtless have nowhere else to go, and I believe that he shares the same mind as we do – the murder of the infidel leaves a slightly better taste in his mouth than the murder of his fellow Muslims.”

A messenger entered the king’s chambers and knelt before him, exclaiming, “A message from one Colonel Jan Casimir, your highness.”

The king bid the messenger bring him the letter, and as he opened it and read it, his eyes grew narrow with confusion.

“This is odd. This man says he recaptured Jarlsberg Castle from the Swedes.”

Koniecpolski furrowed his brow, “Does he not know the war is over?”

“And he has the audacity to ask us for an army to aid him.”

“What are your orders, majesty?”

The Polish king sat in contemplative silence, resting his chin on his clasped hands. Four thousand souls had been lost to the Swedes in the last war. Vital seaports had been lost to them, and Poland had to pay a humiliating tax to trade in its own waters. This heralded the beginning of the end of Poland’s golden age. Sigismund looked at the image of Christ hanging from a wall in his throne room. The king of Heaven gazed down upon His subject, His expression stern and fatherly.

“There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end, it leads to death.” Sigismund muttered, quoting Proverbs.

“What was that, majesty?”

“Assemble the army. We shall take to the field one last time.”