The sound of trumpets announced that breakfast was ready. Princess Anna took Danusia by the hand and went to the royal chambers, where secular dignitaries and knights were waiting for the procession.
Princess Ziemowitowa had already entered first, since as the king’s own sister she took a higher seat at the table. Soon the chamber swarmed with foreign guests and invited local dignitaries and knights. The king sat at the head of the table, with the Bishop of Krakow beside him and Wojciech Jastrzębiec, who though lower in rank than the mitred prelates, sat at the king’s right hand as the papal legate.
The two duchesses took the next seats. Behind Princess Anna, the former Archbishop of Gniezno, Jan, a prince of the Silesian Piasts, lounged comfortably in a broad chair, and further down sat the Teutonic Knight.
Zbyszko, standing behind the princess’s chair, found himself so close to the Teutonic Knight that he could have reached him with his hand. His fingers immediately began to itch and curl, but it was involuntary, for he had fully curbed his impulsiveness and allowed himself no wicked thoughts. Still, he could not resist occasionally casting greedy glances at Lichtenstein’s thinning blond hair—balding slightly at the crown—and at his neck, shoulders, and arms, trying to gauge how much trouble he would have with him if they ever met in battle or single combat. It seemed to him not much, for although the Teutonic Knight’s shoulder blades bulged quite powerfully under his close-fitting gray cloth tunic, he was a weakling compared to such men as Powala, Paszko Złodziej of Biskupice, both of the illustrious Sulima clan, Krzon of Kozichgłowy, and many other knights seated at the king’s table.
Zbyszko gazed at them with admiration and envy, but his main attention was drawn to the king himself. The king kept glancing around, every now and then pushing his hair behind his ears with his fingers, as if impatient that breakfast had not yet begun. His gaze paused for a moment on Zbyszko, and the young knight felt a stab of fear. The thought that he would soon have to stand before the king’s angry face filled him with terrible dread. It was the first time he had truly considered the responsibility and punishment that could fall on him—until now it had all seemed distant, vague, and not worth worrying about.
The German had no idea that the knight who had so boldly attacked him on the road was standing so close. Breakfast began.
A spiced wine soup was brought in, seasoned with eggs, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and saffron so strongly that the aroma spread throughout the room. At the same time, the jester Ciaruszek, sitting on a stool by the door, began to imitate the song of a nightingale, which clearly amused the king. Then another jester walked around the table alongside the servants carrying dishes. He would stand unnoticed behind the guests and mimic the buzzing of a bee so accurately that one after another would put down their spoon and start swatting at their hair. At the sight, others burst out laughing.
Zbyszko diligently served the princess and Danusia, but when Lichtenstein too began slapping at his balding head, he forgot about the danger and laughed until tears came. The Lithuanian knyaz Jamont, standing nearby—the son of the governor of Smolensk—joined in so heartily that he spilled food from the platters.
When the Teutonic Knight finally realized his mistake, he reached for his purse. At the same time, turning to Bishop Kropidło, he said a few words in German, which the bishop immediately repeated in Polish.
“The noble gentleman says to you,” the bishop said, addressing the jester, “you will receive two half-groats, but do not buzz too close, for bees are shooed away, and drones are beaten.”
The jester pocketed the two half-groats and, taking advantage of the freedom allowed to jesters at all courts, replied, “There is a lot of honey in Dobrzyń Land, which is why the drones have swarmed it. Strike them, King Władysław!”
“Take a coin from me too, you spoke well,” said Kropidło. “But remember, when the climbing rope breaks, the beekeeper breaks his neck. Those Malbork drones that have swarmed Dobrzyń have stingers, and it’s dangerous to climb their hive.”
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Zyndram of Maszków, the Sword-Bearer of Krakow. “They can be smoked out!”
“With what?” asked the king.
“With gunpowder,” replied Zyndram.
“Or cut the hive with an axe,” said the giant Paszko Złodziej of Biskupice.
Zbyszko’s heart swelled—he thought such words heralded war. But Kuno Lichtenstein understood them too. Having lived long in Torun and Chełmno, he had learned Polish but only used it out of pride. Now, stung by Zyndram of Maszków’s words, he fixed his gray eyes on him and replied:
“We shall see.”
“Our fathers saw at Płowce, and we saw at Vilnius,” answered Zyndram.
“Among true Christians!” Kuno Lichtenstein repeated emphatically.
“What is this?” exclaimed the Bishop of Krakow, Wysz, raising his head. “Do you not reside in a kingdom that has been Christian for ages? Are the churches here not older than those in Malbork?”
“I do not know,” answered the Teutonic Knight.
The king was particularly sensitive when it came to Christendom. It seemed to him that the Teutonic Knight might be implying something against him personally. His prominent cheeks immediately flushed with red blotches, and his eyes began to flash.
“What is this!” he said in a rough voice. “Am I not a Christian king? What?”
“The kingdom is said to be Christian,” replied the Teutonic Knight coldly, “but its customs are pagan.”
At that, the knights rose menacingly: Marcin z Wrocimowic of the Półkoza coat of arms, Floryan of Korytnica, Bartosz of Wodzinek, Domarat of Kobylany, Powala of Taczew, Paszko Złodziej of Biskupice, Zyndram of Maszkowice, Jaxa of Targowisko, Krzon of Kozichgłowy, Zygmunt of Bobowa, and Staszko of Charbimowice—powerful men, famous victors in many tournaments—and they either flushed with anger, turned pale, or ground their teeth. They began shouting one over another:
“Woe to us! He is a guest and cannot be challenged!”
Then Zawisza Czarny, of the Sulima clan, the most renowned among the renowned, the “knight of knights,” turned his furrowed brow to Lichtenstein and said: “I do not recognize you, Kuno. How can you, being a knight, dishonor a great nation when you know that as an envoy no punishment threatens you for it?”
But Kuno calmly withstood the threatening looks and replied slowly and distinctly:
“Our Order, before it came to Prussia, fought in Palestine. There even the Saracens respected envoys. You alone do not respect them—and that is why I called your customs pagan.”
At this, the uproar grew even greater. Cries of “Woe, woe!” sounded around the table. But they fell silent when the king, his face still burning with anger, clapped his hands several times in the Lithuanian fashion. Then old Jaśko Topór z Tęczyna, the castellan of Krakow—venerable, grave, inspiring awe by the dignity of his office—rose and said:
“Noble knight of Lichtenstein, if some insult has been done to you as an envoy, speak, and stern justice will be done quickly.”
“It would not have happened to me in any other Christian realm,” replied Kuno. “Yesterday on the road to Tyniec, one of your knights attacked me, and though he could easily have known from the cross on my cloak who I am, he sought my life.”
Hearing these words, Zbyszko turned very pale and involuntarily looked at the king, whose face was truly terrible. Jaśko z Tęczyna was astonished and said:
“Can this be?”
“Ask the lord of Taczew, who witnessed the incident.”
All eyes turned to Powala, who stood for a moment gloomy, with lowered eyelids, then said:
“It is so.”
Hearing this, the knights began to shout: “Shame, shame! May the earth swallow such a man!” And from shame, some beat their fists against their thighs and chests; others twisted pewter dishes on the table with their fingers, not knowing where to look.
“Why did you not kill him?” thundered the king.
“Because his head belongs to the court,” replied Powala.
“Have you arrested him?” asked the castellan Topór z Tęczyna.
“No. He was a yeoman who swore on his knightly honor to present himself.”
“And he will not present himself!” cried Kuno mockingly, lifting his head.
Then a young, sad voice spoke up not far behind the Teutonic Knight’s back:
“God forbid that I should prefer shame to death. I did it: Zbyszko of Bogdaniec.”
At these words, the knights rushed toward the unfortunate Zbyszko, but a threatening gesture from the king stopped them. The king rose with blazing eyes and began to shout in a voice breathless from anger, resembling the rattle of a wagon rolling over stones:
“Cut off his head! Cut off his head! Let the Teutonic Knight send his head to the Master in Malbork!”
Then he cried to the young Lithuanian knyaz standing nearby, the son of the governor of Smolensk:
“Seize him, Jamont!”
Terrified by the king’s wrath, Jamont placed his trembling hands on Zbyszko’s shoulders. Zbyszko turned his pale face to him and said:
“I will not flee…”
But the white-bearded castellan of Krakow, Topór z Tęczyna, raised his hand to signal that he wished to speak. When silence fell, he said:
“Merciful king, let this komtur be convinced that it is not your passion, but our laws that punish with death an assault on the person of an envoy. Otherwise he might rightly think that there are no Christian laws in this kingdom. I will conduct the trial of the guilty man tomorrow.”
He spoke the last words in a raised voice, and apparently not even entertaining the thought that his voice could be unheard, he nodded to Jamont:
“Lock him in the tower. You, lord of Taczew, will testify.”
“I will recount the entire guilt of this stripling, which no mature man among us would ever have committed,” replied Powala, looking somberly at Lichtenstein.
“He speaks rightly!” the others echoed. “He is still a boy! Why should we all be shamed because of him?”
For a moment there was silence and hostile glances toward the Teutonic Knight. Meanwhile, Jamont led Zbyszko away to hand him over to the archers standing in the castle courtyard. In his young heart he felt pity for the prisoner, intensified by his inborn hatred of the Germans. But as a Lithuanian, accustomed to blindly obeying the Grand Duke, and himself terrified by the king’s anger, he began whispering to the young knight along the way, by way of friendly advice:
“Do you know what I’ll tell you? Hang yourself! It’s best to hang yourself right away. The king is enraged—they’ll cut off your head anyway. Why not please him? Hang yourself, friend! That’s our custom.”
Zbyszko, half-conscious from shame and fear, seemed at first not to understand the knyaz’s words, but finally he understood—and stopped in astonishment.