III.
However, the war for Samogitia between the Krzyżacy and Witold so consumed the people in the kingdom that they could not help asking about its course. Some were certain that Jagiello would come to his cousin's aid, and that a great expedition against the Order was soon to be expected. The knighthood was eager for it, and throughout all noble residences it was repeated that a considerable number of Krakow lords sitting on the royal council were leaning toward war, believing that it was time to finish once and for all with that enemy who never wanted to be satisfied with his own, and thought about seizing others' property even when fear of his neighbor's power gripped him. But Macko, who was a sensible man, and as a seasoned traveler had seen and learned much, did not believe in an imminent war, and would often speak about it to young Jaśko ze Zgorzelic and to other neighbors he met in Krześnia:
"As long as Master Konrad lives, nothing will come of it, because he is wiser than others and knows that it would not be an ordinary war, but a slaughter: 'your death or mine!' And besides, knowing the king's power, he won't allow it."
"Bah! And what if the king declares war first?" the neighbors asked.
But Macko shook his head.
"You see... I observed everything up close and I've managed to figure out more than a few things. If our king were from our ancient line, kings of Christian ages for centuries, he might have struck the first blow against the Germans. But our Władysław Jagiello — I don't mean to diminish his honor, he is a worthy lord, may God keep him in health — before we chose him as our king, was the Grand Prince of Lithuania and a pagan; he only recently accepted Christianity, and the Germans are barking around the world that his soul is still pagan. Therefore it is terribly unbecoming for him to declare war first and spill Christian blood. For that reason he does not even move to Witold's aid, although his hands are itching, for I also know that he hates the Krzyżacy like leprosy."
By such speeches Macko earned himself the reputation of a shrewd man who could lay out any matter as if on a table. In Krześnia they gathered around him every Sunday after Mass in a circle, and then it became customary that one neighbor or another, having heard some news, would ride to Bogdaniec so that the old knight could explain to him what an ordinary nobleman's head could not comprehend. He received everyone hospitably and spoke willingly with each, and when at last the guest, having talked enough, departed, he never forgot to say goodbye with these words:
"You marvel at my cleverness, but when Zbyszko, God willing, returns, then you'll really be amazed! He could sit on the royal council, such a clever and resourceful fellow!"
And by telling this to his guests, he ended up convincing himself, and Jagienka as well. From a distance, Zbyszko appeared to them both like a prince in a fairy tale. When spring came, they could hardly stay at home.
The swallows returned, the storks returned, the corncrakes began to call in the meadows, the quails sang in the green shoots of grain: before them had come the returning wedges of cranes and teal — but Zbyszko alone did not return. But while the birds migrated from the south, from the north the winged wind brought news of war. They spoke of battles and numerous skirmishes in which the resourceful Witold sometimes won, sometimes was beaten; they spoke of great losses that winter and disease had inflicted among the Germans. Until at last a joyous rumor spread throughout the country that the valiant son of Kynstut had taken New Kaunas, that is Gotteswerder, destroyed it, leaving no stone upon stone nor beam upon beam. When the news reached Macko, he mounted his horse and galloped at full speed to Zgorzelice.
"Ha!" he said. "I know those parts, because Zbyszko and Skirwoillo and I gave the Krzyżacy a good thrashing there. And that worthy de Lorche was taken by us there. Behold, God granted that the Germans slipped up, for it was a castle difficult to capture."
Jagienka, however, had already heard before Macko's arrival about the destruction of New Kaunas, and had even heard something more, namely that Witold had begun peace negotiations. This latter news concerned her even more than the former, because if peace were concluded, Zbyszko, if he were still alive, would have to return home.
So she began asking the old knight whether this was credible, and he, after thinking it over, replied thus:
"With Witold everything is credible, for he is a man entirely different from others and certainly the most cunning of all Christian lords. When he needs to expand his rule toward Rus, he makes peace with the Krzyżacy, and once he achieves what he set out to do, he grabs the Knights by the throat again! They cannot handle him nor that unfortunate Samogitia. One time he takes it away from them, another time he gives it back — and not only gives it back, but even helps them oppress it. There are those among us, and even in Lithuania, who hold it against him that he plays with the blood of that unfortunate people... And I, to tell the truth, would consider it a disgrace, if it were not Witold... Because sometimes I think: what if he is wiser than me and knows what he's doing? As I heard from Skirwoillo himself, he has made that land into an ever-flowing abscess in the Teutonic body, so that it may never come to health... Mothers in Samogitia will always give birth, and blood is not wasted, as long as it doesn't go to waste."
"I only care about whether Zbyszko returns," said Jagienka.
"God willing, but may you have spoken that, girl, in a happy hour!"
However, several months passed. News came that peace had indeed been concluded; the grain turned tawny, heavy with ears, the buckwheat fields had already grown quite ruddy, and there was no word of Zbyszko.
Finally, after the first harvest, Macko could no longer endure it and announced that he would set out for Spychow to gather news there, as being closer to Lithuania, and at the same time to look over Czech's farm.
Jagienka insisted on going with him, and since he didn't want to take her, arguments began between them that lasted a whole week. Until one evening, when they were quarreling thus in Zgorzelice, a boy from Bogdaniec rushed like a whirlwind into the manor yard, barefoot, riding bareback, without a hat on his tawny hair, and shouted to them from in front of the porch on which they were sitting:
"The young master has returned!"
Zbyszko had indeed returned, but strangely: not only thin, wind-burned, and emaciated, but also indifferent and taciturn. Czech, who had ridden with his wife, arrived with him — and talked for both of them. He said that the expedition had evidently succeeded for the young knight, since in Spychow he had placed on the coffins of Danusia and her mother a whole bundle of knightly peacock and ostrich plumes. He also returned with captured horses and armor, two of which were extremely valuable, though terribly cut up by sword and axe blows. Macko burned with curiosity to learn everything in detail from his nephew's own lips, but the latter only waved his hand and answered in monosyllables — and on the third day he fell ill and had to take to his bed.
It turned out that he had a bruised left side and two broken ribs, which, poorly set, were "hindering" his walking and breathing. The ailments he had once suffered after the accident with the aurochs also flared up — and the journey from Spychow contributed to completely sapping his strength. None of this was particularly dangerous in itself, because the lad was young and as enduring as an oak — but for the moment, an immense fatigue overcame him, as if all the hardships he had endured were only now beginning to course through his bones. At first Macko thought that after two or three days of bed rest everything would pass, but instead the opposite happened. No ointments, no herbal fumigations recommended by the local shepherd, nor the decoctions sent by Jagienka and the priest from Krześnia helped. Zbyszko grew weaker, wearier, and sadder.
"What's wrong with you? Maybe you want something?" the old knight questioned him.
"I want nothing — and everything is the same to me," Zbyszko replied.
And so day after day passed. Jagienka, having gotten the idea that this might be something more than ordinary "lameness" — and that the youth probably had some secret that was oppressing him, began to urge Macko to try once more to find out what it might be.
Macko agreed without hesitation, but after thinking a moment, he said:
"What if he would rather tell you than me? Because — he likes you, he does, and I've noticed that when you move about the room, he follows you with his eyes."
"You've seen that?" Jagienka asked.
"When I say he follows, he follows. And when you're away for a long time, he keeps glancing at the door. You ask him."
And so it was decided. However, it turned out that Jagienka neither could nor dared. Only when it came to it did she understand that she would have to talk about Danusia and Zbyszko's love for the deceased — and those things did not want to pass through her lips.
"You are craftier," she said to Macko, "and have better sense and experience: you speak; I cannot."
So Macko, willingly or not, set about the matter, and one morning, when Zbyszko seemed a bit more lively than usual, he began a conversation with him thus:
"Hlawa told me that you placed a worthy bundle of peacock crests in the crypt at Spychow."
And he, not taking his eyes off the ceiling, which he was staring at while lying on his back, only nodded his head in confirmation.
"Well! The Lord Jesus favored you: for even in war it's easier to find common soldiers than knights... you can kill as many knects as you want — but for a knight you often have to look carefully... Did they come under your blade of their own accord?"
"I challenged various ones several times to single combat, and once they surrounded me in battle," the youth replied lazily.
"And you brought back plenty of captured goods..."
"In part, Prince Witold gifted them."
"He's always generous."
Zbyszko nodded again, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation.
But Macko did not give up and decided to get to the point.
"Tell me honestly," he said. "Once you covered those little coffins with those plumes, it must have brought you great relief?... A man is always glad when he fulfills a vow... Were you happy? Eh?"
Zbyszko pulled his sad eyes from the ceiling, turned them to Macko, and answered, as if with some surprise:
"No."
"No? For God's sake! I thought that once you pleased those souls in heaven, that would be the end of it."
But the youth closed his eyes for a moment, as if in thought, and finally replied:
"Apparently, human blood is of no use to saved souls."
A moment of silence ensued.
"Then why did you go to this war?" Macko finally asked.
"Why?" Zbyszko replied with some animation. "I myself thought it would relieve me! I thought I would please both Danushka and myself... But afterwards I felt strange. I came out of the crypt from those little coffins, and I was as heavy-hearted as before. So it seems that human blood is of no use to saved souls."
"Someone must have told you that, because you wouldn't have thought it up yourself."
"I figured it out from the simple fact that the world didn't seem any happier to me afterwards than before. Father Kaleb only confirmed it."
"Killing an enemy in war is no sin at all, indeed it's a praiseworthy deed, and these are enemies of our race."
"I don't consider it a sin either, and I don't regret them."
"Only Danushka still?"
"Well, yes; when I remember her, I feel sorrow. But God's will! She is better off in the heavenly court — and I've grown used to it."
"Then why can't you shake off your sadness? What do you lack?"
"I don't know..."
"You have no lack of rest, and the lameness will soon pass. Go to the bathhouse, take a bath, and drink a jug of mead to sweat — and you'll be fine!"
"And then what?"
"And you'll soon regain cheerfulness."
"But where will I find it? I won't find it within myself, and no one will lend it to me."
"Because you're hiding something!"
Zbyszko shrugged.
"I have no cheerfulness, but I also have nothing to hide."
And he said this so sincerely that Macko immediately stopped suspecting him of having a secret, and instead began to rub his broad palm over his gray hair, as he always did when thinking hard about something, and finally said:
"Then I'll tell you what you lack: one thing has ended for you, and another hasn't yet begun — understand?"
"Not really, but maybe so!" answered the young man.
And he stretched like a man being overtaken by sleep.
Macko, however, was certain that he had guessed the true cause, and was immensely pleased, because he stopped worrying altogether. He also gained even more confidence in his own intelligence than before and said to himself: "No wonder people ask my advice!"
And when after that conversation, on the evening of the same day, Jagienka came — before she could even dismount from her horse, he told her that he knew what Zbyszko lacked.
So the girl slid down from the saddle in an instant and began to question him:
"What? What is it? Tell me!"
"You have the very remedy for him."
"I? What remedy?"
And he put his arm around her waist and began whispering in her ear, but not for long, for after a moment she jumped away from him as if scalded, hid her flushed face between the saddlecloth and the high saddle, and cried:
"Go away! I can't stand you!"
"As God is my witness, I'm telling the truth," said Macko, laughing.