“So that’s it?” asked Zbyszko, amused.
They rode in silence for a while, then de Lorche raised his eyes to the sky and said, “I invited you to supper, but by the time we get there, it will probably be breakfast.”
“The moon is still shining,” replied Zbyszko. “Let’s ride.”
So they caught up with Macko and Powała and rode on together, the four of them, along the wide camp street that was always laid out by order of the commanders between the tents and campfires to keep the passage clear. To reach the Masovian banners stationed at the other end of the camp, they had to ride its entire length.
“As long as Poland has been Poland,” said Macko, “it has never seen such armies, for nations have flowed from all lands of the earth.”
“Nor has any other king mustered such forces,” replied de Lorche, “for no king rules so powerful a realm.”
And the old knight turned to Powała of Taczew. “How many banners came with Prince Witold, you said, sir?”
“Forty,” replied Powała. “Ours, Polish along with the Masovians, are fifty, but not as richly filled as Witold’s, for with him sometimes several thousand men serve under one banner. Ha! We heard that the Master said they are rabble better suited to spoons than to swords, but I pray he said it in an ill hour, for I think those spears of Lithuania will turn a fierce red with Krzyżak blood.”
“And those we are passing now, who are they?” asked de Lorche.
“They are Tatars; Witold’s vassal Saladyn brought them.”
“Are they good in battle?”
“Lithuania knows how to fight them and conquered a large part of them, which is why they had to come to this war. But for Western knighthood, it’s hard with them, for they are more terrible in flight than in confrontation.”
“Let’s look at them closer,” said de Lorche.
And they rode toward the campfires, which were surrounded by men with completely bare arms, dressed despite the summer season in sheepskin coats with the wool turned up. Most of them slept directly on the bare ground, or on damp straw steaming from the heat, but many sat crouched by the burning pyres; some shortened the night hours by humming wild songs through their noses and beating one horse cannon bone against another in rhythm, which made a strange and unpleasant clatter; others had small drums or twanged the taut strings of their bows. Still others devoured fresh, smoking, and bloody pieces of meat taken from the fire, blowing on them with swollen, blue lips. In general, they looked so wild and menacing that they could more easily be taken for some terrible forest monsters than for men. The fire smoke was acrid from the horse and mutton fat melting in it, and besides that, an unbearable stench of singed hair, heated hides, and a sickly sweet smell of freshly flayed skins and blood spread around. From the other, dark side of the street, where the horses stood, their sweat wafted over. Those nags, several hundred of which were kept nearby for patrols, having eaten all the grass, bit each other, squealing terribly and snorting. The grooms pacified the fights with shouts and rawhide whips.
It was dangerous to venture among them alone, for they were an incredibly rapacious horde. Right behind them stood the scarcely less wild bands of Bessarabians, with horns on their heads, long-haired Wallachians, who wore instead of armor painted wooden boards on their chests and backs, with clumsy images of ghosts, skeletons, or animals; further on, Serbs, whose now-sleeping camp during the day at halts resounded like one great lute, so many fifes, balalaikas, bagpipes, and various musical instruments were there.
The fires blazed, and from the sky among the clouds that a strong wind scattered, shone a bright great moon, and by those lights our knights gazed at the camps.
Behind the Serbs stood the unfortunate Samogitia, which at Witold’s summons rose to new battles. And now, as if in anticipation that her misery would soon end once and for all, she had come here, filled with the spirit of that same Skirwoillo, whose very name filled the Germans with rage and terror. The Samogitian campfires touched directly the Lithuanian ones, for it was the same nation, the same customs and speech.
But at the entrance to the camps of Lithuania, a grim sight struck the knights’ eyes. There, on a gallows built of round logs, hung two human corpses, which the wind swayed, rocked, turned, and tossed with such force that the gallows beams creaked plaintively. The horses snorted at the sight of the corpses and sat back slightly on their haunches, so the knights began to cross themselves piously, and when they had ridden past, Powała said:
“Prince Witold was with the king, and I was with the king when these criminals were brought in. Earlier, our bishops and lords had complained that the men of Lithuania fought too cruelly and did not spare even churches. So, when they were brought (and they were notable men, but these wretches had allegedly insulted the Blessed Sacrament), the prince swelled with such anger that it was frightening to look at him—and he ordered them to hang themselves. Those poor souls had to set up the gallows themselves and hang themselves, and one even urged the other: ‘Come on, faster, or the prince will get angrier.’ And fear fell upon all the Tatars and men of Lithuania, for they fear not death, but the prince’s wrath.”
“Well, I remember,” said Zbyszko, “that once in Krakow, when the king was angry with me over Lichtenstein, young Kniaz Jamont, who was the king’s chamberlain, also advised me to hang myself. And he gave that advice from a good heart, though I would have challenged him to a duel for it, if it weren’t that they were going to cut my head off anyway, as you know.”
“Kniaz Jamont has already learned knightly customs,” said Powała.
Talking thus, they passed the camp of Lithuania and three splendid Ruthenian regiments, of which the largest was that of Smolensk, and entered the Polish camp. There stood fifty banners—the core and the forefront of all the armies. The armor here was better, the horses larger, the knighthood more practiced, in nothing inferior to the Western knights. In physical strength, endurance of hunger, cold, and hardship, these lords from Greater and Lesser Poland even surpassed the Western warriors, who were more concerned with comfort. Their customs were simpler, their breastplates more roughly forged, but their temper harder, and their contempt for death and incredible stubbornness in battle had often been admired by French and English knights who came from afar in their time.
De Lorche, who had known Polish knighthood for a long time, said likewise: “Here is all the strength and all the hope. I remember how in Malbork they often complained that in battle with you, every span of land had to be paid for with a river of blood.”
“A river of blood will flow now as well,” replied Macko, “for the Order has never gathered such might.”
To which Powała said: “The knight Korzbog, who traveled from the king to the Master with letters, said that the Krzyżacy claim that neither the Roman emperor nor any king has such might, and that the Order could conquer all kingdoms.”
“Well, still we are more!” said Zbyszko.
“Yes, but they regard Witold’s army lightly, saying it’s a poorly armed people and that it will shatter at the first blow like a clay pot under a hammer. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know.”
“Both true and false!” said shrewd Macko. “Zbyszko and I know them, for we fought alongside them. It’s true their armor is worse and their horses are runty, so it often happens that they give way under the pressure of knights, but they have hearts as brave as, or even braver than, the Germans.”
“It will soon be shown,” said Powała. “The king’s eyes constantly fill with tears at the thought that so much Christian blood will be spilled, and until the last moment he would like to make a just peace, but the pride of the Krzyżacy will not allow it.”
“Indeed! I know the Krzyżacy, and we all know them,” agreed Macko. “God has already set the scales on which He will place our blood and the blood of our people’s enemies.”
They were already near the Masovian banners, among which stood the tents of Lord de Lorche, when suddenly in the middle of the street they noticed a fairly large crowd of people, huddled together and looking at the sky.
“Stop there, stop!” called a voice from the middle of the crowd.
“And who speaks, and what are you doing here?” asked Powała.
“The parish priest of Klobuck. And who are you?”
“Powała of Taczew, knights of Bogdaniec, and de Lorche.”
“Ah, it’s you, sir,” said the parish priest in a mysterious voice, approaching Powała’s horse. “Just look at the moon and see what is happening on it. This is a prophetic and wondrous night!”
So the knights raised their heads and began to look at the moon, which had already paled and was near setting.
“I can’t make out anything!” said Powała. “And what do you see?”
“A monk in a hood is fighting with a king in a crown! Look! Over there! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Spirit! us sinners!”
Silence fell all around, for everyone held their breath.
“Look, look!” cried the priest.
“True! There is something like that!” said Macko.
“True, true!” confirmed others.
“Ha! The king has overthrown the monk!” suddenly exclaimed the parish priest of Klobuck. “He set his foot on him! Praised be Jesus Christ.”
“For ever and ever!”
At that moment a large black cloud covered the moon—and the night became dark—only the glow of the campfires trembled in bloody streaks across the road.
The knights rode on, and when they had left the group, Powała asked: “Did you see anything?”
“At first nothing,” replied Macko, “but then I saw clearly both the king and the monk.”
“And I.”
“And I.”
“A sign from God,” said Powała. “Ha! So despite our king’s tears, apparently there will be no peace.”
And they rode on in silence, their hearts full and solemn.
But when they were already near Lord de Lorche’s tent, a whirlwind arose again with such force that in an instant it scattered the campfires of the Masurians. The air swarmed with thousands of firebrands, burning splinters, sparks, and at the same time was shrouded in clouds of smoke.
“Hey, it blows fiercely!” said Zbyszko, pulling down his cloak, which the wind had blown over his head.
“And in the whirlwind you can hear moans and human cries.”
“Dawn will come soon, but no one knows what the day will bring,” added de Lorche.
Toward morning, the gale not only did not cease but increased to such an extent that it was impossible to pitch the tent in which the king had been accustomed since the beginning of the campaign to hear three holy Masses daily. Finally, Witold came running with requests and entreaties to postpone the service to a suitable time in the forest shelters and not to delay the march. And so his wish was fulfilled, for it could not be otherwise.
At sunrise the armies moved forward in a broad front, and behind them an endless wagon train. After an hour of marching, the wind calmed down, so that the banners could be unfurled. And then the fields, as far as the eye could see, covered themselves as if with multicolored flowers.
No eye could encompass the hosts and that forest of various signs under which the regiments advanced. So the Krakow Land marched under the red banner with a white eagle in a crown, and that was the supreme banner of the entire Kingdom, a great sign for all the armies. It was carried by Marcin z Wrocimowic, of the Półkoza coat of arms, a powerful knight famous in the world.
Behind it came the court banners, one bearing the double cross of Lithuania above them, the other under the Pogon. And under the sign of Saint George marched a powerful host of mercenaries and foreign volunteers, mostly composed of Czechs and Moravians. Many of these had come to this war, for even the entire forty-ninth banner was exclusively composed of them. They were a people, especially the infantry that followed the lancers, wild, unruly, but so trained for battle and so fierce in engagement that all other infantry, when they brushed against them, jumped back as quickly as a dog from a hedgehog. Berdiches, scythes, axes, and especially iron flails were their only weapons.
Alongside the Moravians and Czechs, under their own signs, marched sixteen banners of Polish lands, including one from Przemyśl, one from Lwów, one from Halicz, and three from Podolia, and behind them the infantry of those lands, mostly armed with spears and scythes. The Masovian princes Janusz and Ziemowit led the twenty-first, second, and third banners. Next came the bishops’ banners, and then the lords’ banners in the number of twenty-two. So those of Jasko of Tarnów, Jendrek of Teczyn, Spytek Leliwa, and Krzon of Ostrów, and Mikołaj of Michałów, and Zbigniew of Brzezie, and Krzon of Koziegłowy, and Kuba of Koniecpol, and Jasko Ligęza, and Kmita, and Zaklika, and besides them, the clan of Gryfici, and Bobowscy, and various others who in battles gathered under a common coat of arms and together shouted their war cry.
And thus the earth bloomed beneath them, as meadows bloom in spring. A wave of horses, a wave of men, above them a forest of lances with colorful pennons like smaller flowers, and behind, in clouds of dust, the town and peasant infantry. They knew that it must be, so they went with willing hearts.
On the right wing flowed Witold’s hordes, under banners of various colors but all bearing the same image of the Pogon of Lithuania. No eye could encompass all the hosts, for they stretched across fields and forests for a width of more than a German mile.