Prologue: The Most Miserable of Men Part I
City of Tver, Principality of Tver. 1465
Tver is aflame.
Fires rage through the great buildings of this mighty city. Her armies crushed again and again by the remorseless advance of the Golden Horde, but a few soldiers remain within the city's walls, sworn to defend her, and her prince, to the death. Outwith the battered walls of the city, the raucous shouts of the heathen legions strike fear into the hearts of the defenders.
But for one man of Tver, looking out across the blazing towers and collapsing spires...there is only despair.
Aleksandr II Rurikovich, Prince of Tver, stood upon the balcony of the royal palace, reflecting on his efforts. His labours. His failures. A mighty soldier, and a popular Prince, his skills have come to naught against the sheer ferocity of the Tartar. It is not the first time they have battered upon the gates of Tver. But now, he fears, it will be the last.
'A bleak night, my prince.'
Aleksandr felt a strong hand upon his shoulder. Bronisław Dobczyński, Captain of the Guard, stood by the prince of Tver, as he always had, through times glorious and terrible.
'Less bleak, Dobczyński, when you are here.'
'I'm always behind you, sir.'
'So I feel.'
'Well, you
will wander around naked.'
'Was there ever, Dobczyński, a Prince more miserable than I?'
'Nonsense, Leksi. You did not bring this upon yourself.'
'To see all that I have built and worked for sundered by these...
savages. My heart weeps. I feel the shame of my mighty ancestors.'
'You have shamed no-one, my Prince, least of all your House.'
'You are not a Prince, Dobczyński. You do not understand. Your family's record of service is outstanding, while I must watch as my city burns.'
'There are worse fates than this, my Prince. Whatever happens tomorrow, you will be remembered as a great warrior and defender of your country. Your tale, at least, will have some honour to it.'
'We would be nothing without the Dobczyńskis, Bron. At least your House's record is unblemished.'
'I...would not say so.'
'What do you mean?'
'There are...events in my family's past that are not often discussed. Stories that would horrify you.'
'Tell me.'
'You don't want to know, sir.'
'Oh, but I do.'
'We never talk about it, Leksi. It is our shame, a deep and bloody scar across the face of our so-called honour.'
'Bron, I stand upon the precipice of destruction. I will soon be dead, a heathen scimitar lodged in my chest. What harm would it do to tell me a story. To pass the time until annihilation.'
'I will not let that happen.'
'Perhaps not. But until then, humour me, Dobczyński. Tell me your tale.'
'If you are sure, sir. Nobody must know. Nobody outwith our House has ever heard that tale of...'
'
...the Black Dobczyńskis of Silesia!'
Płock, Duchy of Mazovia, Kingdom of Poland. 1066.
'Four hundred years ago, in the Duchy of Mazovia, there stood a fine wooden mansion – a small castle, really - in the great forests around the city of Płock. This was the ancient residence of a noble family, one sworn to the service of Christendom's princes, to guide and counsel them in times of need.'
'Sounds promising.'
'On a cold winter's night, in the great hall of the castle, assembled the great and good of the House of Dobczyński. In the centre, before the assembled ranks of the Dobczyński Clan and their allies, is a simple throne, under the white eagle on black shield of the Dobczyńskis. Upon this throne, sits Wojciech Dobczyński, Patriarch of the Clan.'
'Enter a young man...'
'Gladly.'
'...tall, handsome, and eager to make his way in the world. Quick-minded, silver-tongued, he is as fine a scion of the House as could be asked for. And as he kneels before his grandfather, so begins our tale of woe...'
'Children, friends, family. Welcome to our home, the stronghold of our clan. We are gathered here for a very special occasion, when one of our number goes on to greater things in the world. You are welcome, Trojden, my daughter's son.'
'I serve, grandfather.'
'It is time for you, to take up the mantle of service, Trojden, as do all men and women of this house.'
'Yes, grandfather. Though not, I might add, in the normal way.'
'...yes. Trojden, I know what it is that you want. And that your...
particular circumstances complicate matters a bit...'
'It is my birthright, grandfather.'
'...but you are one of us, Trojden. Born and raised a man of House Dobczyński.'
'I can still serve, grandfather. I know out role. But it is possible to serve...'
'
Trojden. I am sorry. But the answer is
no.'
'...
no?'
'I have offered your services to the Duke of Florence, and he has accepted.'
'I don't want to go to Florence!'
'Trojden, what you ask is imposs...'
'My father is Wlost, Duke of Silesia, and he has no heir to his title. None, save for me!'
'That man abandoned your mother! A despicable man and a terrible ruler.'
'Which is why I must go to Wrotizla and confront him!'
'
Confront?'
'I mean, to advise him! To improve the rulership of the Duchy!'
'You think he will recognise you? As either advisor or as heir?'
'I will
make him recognise me! And recognise what he did to my mother.'
'That is not our way, Trojden!'
'
Our way? Or
yours?'
'You are not ready for
leadership.'
'And you are?'
'That is enough, Trojden! If you cannot let your grudge against your father go, you are of no use to us.'
'I do not need to be
of use to anyone!'
'No, I...I didn't mean...'
'I don't care what you meant! You know what I am, who I am! And you knew that I would not be satisfied with some petty
servitude in Tuscany.'
'I hoped you would see sense! You were brought up to be an advisor, Trojden, a diplomat, an ambassador...'
'I won't be restricted by your ancient codes and rituals! I am going to go to Silesia, and take what was meant to be mine!'
'Stop, Trojden! We can talk about...'
'I am finished
talking with you, old man! I have given you my respect all this time, and this is how I am rewarded? To be shipped off to southern Europe, out of the way, while my so-called father still rules in Wrotizla? No. I thought that you, that all of you, were my family, but if you will not support me, then I do not need any of you!'
And with that, Trojden Dobczyński turned, and stormed out of the hall.
He walked quickly, with great purpose, heading south-west towards the capital, Kraków. In his anger, he did not think to take a horse. He did not notice the cold as he marched towards his destiny, anger at his family – and at his unknown father – boiling in his veins.
The weather gods, though, did not look kindly on the young man. As the red mist slowly gave way to a lingering, black desire for vengeance, the winds began to howl. The snow grew heavier, turning into a thick blizzard that turned his world into an unrelenting sea of white. Miles from the nearest town, he soldiered on, shielding his face from winter's bitter artillery.
Ultimately, though, while the news would shock a thousand women (and a great many men) across three continents, even a Dobczyński has his limits. The snow climbed higher up his legs, water seeping into his boots. The red cloak of his House offered little protection against the storm, his steps slowing, his ungloved hands cut and blistered by the biting winds. Trojden Dobczyński slipped, falling to his knees as the snow began to climb on top of him.
'So this is how it ends...damn you! Damn you, grandfather, and all of you, for doing this to me! And you as well, Trojden. A fool's death in the middle of nowhere. A fitting end for a bastard! Why, God? Why have you, too, forsaken me? Always have I been your servant, but you drive me to despair, drive me to my own destruction! Oh, for a chance...before I die, that I might see them, see but
one of my tormentors, and wreak my vengeance! O furies and devils, what I would give you for that chance!'
'...
ahem.'