Macko and Zbyszko had promised themselves to leave Malbork immediately, but on that day when Zyndram of Maszkowice had so greatly comforted their souls, they did not leave. There was a dinner at the High Castle, and then a supper in honor of the envoys and guests. Zbyszko was invited as a royal knight, and because of Zbyszko, so was Macko.
The dinner was held in a smaller gathering, in the magnificent great refectory. Ten windows illuminated the room, and its fan-vaulted ceiling—a rare architectural feat—rested on a single pillar. Apart from the royal knights, only one Swabian count and one Burgundian count sat at the table among the foreigners. The latter, though subject to wealthy rulers, had come on their behalf to borrow money from the Order.
Among the locals, aside from the Master, four dignitaries known as the pillars of the Order took part in the dinner: the Grand Komtur, the Almoner, the Chamberlain, and the Treasurer. The fifth pillar, the Marshal, was at that time on an expedition against Witold.
Though the Order had taken a vow of poverty, they dined on gold and silver plates and drank malmsey, as the Master wished to dazzle the eyes of the Polish envoys. Yet despite the abundance of dishes and the generous hospitality, the feast grew somewhat tedious. Conversation stumbled, and everyone had to maintain a solemn air.
The supper in the enormous convent refectory (Convents Remter), by contrast, was far merrier. The entire convent assembled, along with all those guests who had not yet marched against Witold with the Marshal's army. No quarrel or argument disturbed this merriment. The foreign knights, foreseeing that they would one day have to face the Poles, did look upon them with disfavor. But the Krzyżacy had warned them in advance to behave calmly, begging them earnestly. They feared that offending the envoys would insult the king and the entire kingdom. Even in this, the Order's ill will showed itself, for they warned the guests about the Poles' hot temper: "For any sharp word, they'll tear out your beard or stab you with a knife." So the guests were later surprised by the good nature of both Powala of Taczewa and Zyndram of Maszkowice, and the sharper ones realized that it was not Polish customs that were coarse, but the Krzyżacy's tongues that were malicious and venomous.
Some guests, accustomed to refined entertainments at polished Western courts, formed a poor opinion of the Krzyżacy's own customs. The feast featured an overly rowdy band, crude songs from minstrels, coarse jokes from jesters, bear dances, and barefoot girls dancing. When someone remarked on the presence of women in the High Castle, it turned out the prohibition had long been broken. The great Winrich von Kniprode himself had once danced here with the beautiful Mary von Alfleben. The brothers explained that women could not reside in the Castle, but could come to the refectory for feasts. Last year, Duchess Witoldowa, who dwelled in the royally furnished old Puszkarnia in the Przedzamcze, came here daily to play a golden backgammon set, which was given to her each evening.
That evening they played not only backgammon and chess but also dice; there was more of that than conversation, which was drowned out by songs and that overly rowdy band. Yet amid the general din, moments of silence occurred. Taking advantage of one such moment, Zyndram of Maszkowice, as if knowing nothing, asked the Grand Master whether the subjects in all lands greatly loved the Order.
To which Konrad von Jungingen said: "Whoever loves the Cross should also love the Order."
This answer pleased both the monastic knights and the guests, who began to praise him. Pleased, he continued: "Whoever is our friend fares well under us. As for our enemy, we have two ways to deal with him."
"What are they?" asked the Polish knight.
"Your Honor may not know that I come down from my chambers to this refectory by a small stairway in the wall, and next to that stairway is a certain vaulted room. If I were to take Your Honor there, you would learn the first way."
"Indeed!" cried the brothers.
The lord of Maszkowice guessed that the Master was speaking of that "tower" full of gold, of which the Krzyżacy boasted. He reflected a moment and replied: "Once—a terribly long time ago—a certain German emperor showed such a chamber to our envoy, named Skarbek, and said: 'I have something to beat your lord with.' And Skarbek threw him a costly ring and said: 'Let gold go to gold—we Poles are more fond of iron.' And do you know, Your Honors, what happened then? Then came Hundsfeld..."
"What is Hundsfeld?" asked a dozen knights at once.
"It is," replied Zyndram calmly, "a field where no one could keep up with burying the Germans, and in the end, dogs buried them."
Both the knights and the monastic brothers were greatly dismayed upon hearing this answer and did not know what to say. Zyndram of Maszkowice said as if in conclusion: "With gold you cannot prevail against iron."
"Bah!" cried the Master. "But that's our second way—iron. Your Honor saw the armorers' workshops in the Przedzamcze. The hammers forge there night and day, and there are no such armor or swords anywhere in the world."
Then Powala of Taczewa reached toward the center of the table and picked up a cleaver used for cutting meat—a cubit long and more than half a span wide. He rolled it lightly into a tube, like parchment, raised it so all could see, and handed it to the Master. "If the iron in your swords is like this," he said, "then you won't accomplish much with them." He smiled, pleased with himself. The clerics and laymen rose from their seats and hurried over to the Grand Master, passing the rolled cleaver from hand to hand. All were silent, their hearts trembling at the sight of such strength.
"By the head of Saint Liborius!" cried the Master at last. "You have iron hands, my lord."
The Burgundian count added: "And from better iron than this. He rolled that cleaver as if it were made of wax."
"He didn't even flush, nor did his veins swell!" cried one of the brothers.
"Because," answered Powala, "our people are simple, unacquainted with such riches as I see here, but hearty."
Then Italian and French knights approached him and began speaking to him in their melodious language, about which old Macko said it sounded like someone shaking tin plates. They admired his strength, and he clinked glasses with them and replied: "Back home, at feasts, such things are often done, and it so happens that even some young girl could roll a smaller cleaver."
But the Germans, who liked to boast among foreigners of their stature and strength, felt shame—and anger took hold of them. Old Helfenstein began to shout across the table: "This is a disgrace for us! Brother Arnold von Baden, show that our bones are not made of church candles! Give him a cleaver!"
The servants soon brought a cleaver and placed it before Arnold. But whether because the sight of so many witnesses rattled him, or because his finger strength was indeed less than Powala's, he bent the cleaver in half but could not twist it.
Thus more than one foreign guest, to whom the Krzyżacy had previously whispered that war with King Jagiello would come in winter, thought deeply. They recalled at that moment that winter in this country could be terribly harsh, and that perhaps it would be better to return, while there was still time, to their native castle under a milder sky. And what was strange about it was that such thoughts began to come to their minds in July, during beautiful weather and heat.