"We, Krzyżacy, fear no one," the commander replied proudly.
And the old castellan added quietly, "And especially God."
The next day, before the castellan's court, Powala of Taczew did everything in his power to lessen Zbyszko's guilt. But in vain did he attribute the deed to youth and inexperience. In vain did he say that even someone older, if he had vowed three peacock feathers and prayed for them to be sent, and then suddenly saw such a crest before him, might think it a divine dispensation. One thing the worthy knight could not deny: that if not for him, Zbyszko's lance would have struck the chest of the Teutonic Knight. Kuno, however, had the armor he had worn that day brought to court. It turned out to be made of thin sheet metal, used only for ceremonial visits, and so flimsy that Zbyszko, given his extraordinary strength, would have undoubtedly pierced it through with his lance and killed the envoy. So they asked Zbyszko whether he had intended to kill the Teutonic Knight, but he did not want to deny it.
"I called to him from afar," he said, "to set his lance, for alive he would not have let me tear the helmet from his head. But if he had also called from afar that he was an envoy, I would have left him in peace."
These words pleased the knights, who had gathered in great numbers at the court out of goodwill for the young man. At once many voices arose: "True! Why didn't he call out?"
But the castellan's face remained gloomy and stern. Having ordered the audience to be silent, he himself was silent for a moment. Then he fixed his searching eyes on Zbyszko and asked, "Can you swear on the Passion of Our Lord that you did not see the cloak and the cross?"
"Not at all!" replied Zbyszko. "If I had not seen the cross, I would have thought he was one of our knights, and I certainly would not have struck at one of our own."
"And how could another Teutonic Knight be near Krakow if not as an envoy or from an envoy's retinue?"
To this Zbyszko said nothing, for there was nothing to say. It was all too clear to everyone that if not for Powala of Taczew, at that moment before the court there would lie not the envoy's armor, but the envoy himself with a pierced breast, to the eternal shame of the Polish nation. So even those who wholeheartedly favored Zbyszko understood that the verdict could not be merciful for him.
Indeed, after a moment the castellan said, "Because in your ardor you did not think whom you were striking and acted without malice, therefore our Savior will reckon it to you and forgive you. But you, poor wretch, commend yourself to the Most Holy Virgin, for the law cannot forgive you this..."
Having heard this, Zbyszko, although he had expected such words, turned somewhat pale. But soon after, he shook back his long hair, crossed himself, and said, "God's will! Ah well, no help for it!"
Then he turned to Macko and indicated Lichtenstein with his eyes, as if commending him to his memory. Macko nodded to show that he understood and would remember. Lichtenstein also understood that look and that gesture, and although a heart as valiant as it was vengeful beat in his breast, a shudder ran through him from head to foot for a moment — so terrible and menacing was the old warrior's face at that moment. The Teutonic Knight saw that from now on it would be a matter of life and death between him and that knight; that even if he wanted to hide from him, he would not be able to; and that when he ceased to be an envoy, they would have to meet, even if in Malbork.
Meanwhile, the castellan went to the adjoining chamber to dictate the sentence on Zbyszko to the secretary, who was skilled in writing. One knight and another approached the Teutonic Knight during that break, saying, "May you be judged more mercifully on the Day of Judgment! Are you pleased with this blood?"
But Lichtenstein cared only about Zawisza, for he was widely known throughout the world for his feats of arms, knowledge of knightly laws, and extreme strictness in observing them. In the most complicated matters concerning knightly honor, people often turned to him from very far away, and no one ever dared to contradict him, not only because a single combat with him was impossible, but also because he was regarded as a "mirror of honor." A single word of blame or praise from his lips quickly spread among the knighthood of Poland, Hungary, Bohemia, and Germany, and could determine a knight's good or bad reputation.
So Lichtenstein approached him and, as if wanting to justify his relentlessness, said, "Only the Grand Master himself together with the Chapter could show him mercy — I cannot..."
"Your master has nothing to do with our laws; mercy here can be shown not by him, but only by our king," replied Zawisza.
"And I, as an envoy, had to demand punishment."
"You were a knight before you were an envoy, Lichtenstein..."
"Do you think I have offended honor?"
"You know our knightly circles and you know that a knight is commanded to imitate two animals: the lion and the lamb. Which of them did you imitate in this affair?"
"You are not my judge..."
"You asked whether you had offended honor, and I told you what I think."
"You told me badly, for I cannot swallow that."
"You will choke on your own anger, not mine."
"But Christ will count it to me that I cared more for the majesty of the Order than for your praise..."
"He will judge us all as well."
Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the castellan and the secretary. It was already known that the verdict would be unfavorable, yet a dead silence fell. The castellan took his place behind the table and, taking a crucifix in his hand, ordered Zbyszko to kneel. The secretary began to read the sentence in Latin. Neither Zbyszko nor the assembled knights understood it, but everyone guessed that it was a death sentence. After the reading was finished, Zbyszko struck his chest several times with his fist, repeating, "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" Then he rose and threw himself into Macko's arms, who began to silently kiss his head and eyes.
In the evening of that day, a herald proclaimed to the knights, guests, and townspeople at the four corners of the market square, to the sound of trumpets, that the noble Zbyszko of Bogdaniec was condemned by the castellan's verdict to have his head cut off with a sword.
But Macko begged that the execution not take place soon, which came to him more easily because people of that time, fond of meticulous disposition of property, were usually given time to reach agreements with their family, as well as to reconcile with God. Lichtenstein himself also did not want to insist on the speedy execution of the sentence, reasoning that since the offended majesty of the Order had been satisfied, the powerful monarch, to whom he had been sent not only to take part in the baptism celebrations but also to negotiate for Dobrzyń Land, should not be further alienated. The most important consideration, however, was the queen's health. Bishop Wysz would not even hear of an execution before her illness, rightly believing that such a matter could not be hidden from the lady, and that she, once she learned of it, would fall into a "turmoil" that could seriously harm her. Thus Zbyszko had several weeks, perhaps more, of life left for final arrangements and farewells to acquaintances.
Indeed, Macko visited him daily and consoled him as best he could. They spoke sorrowfully of Zbyszko's inevitable death, and more sorrowfully still about the possibility that the family line might die out.
"There's no other way; you'll have to take a wife," Zbyszko said once.
"I would rather find some relative, even from afar," replied the troubled Macko. "How can I think about women when they are about to cut off your neck? And even if I absolutely must take one, I won't do it until I send a knightly challenge to Lichtenstein and exact vengeance. Don't you worry!"
"God reward you. Let me at least have that pleasure! But I knew you wouldn't forgive him. How will you do it?"
"When the embassy ends, there will be war or peace — you understand? If there is war, I will send him a challenge to stand against me in single combat before the battle."
"On trampled ground?"
"On trampled ground, on horseback or on foot, but only to the death, not to captivity. And if there is peace, I will ride to Malbork and strike the castle gate with my lance, and have the trumpeter trumpet that I challenge him to the death. He won't hide from me."
"Surely he won't hide. And you'll give him his due, as I see it."
"Master him? I couldn't master Zawisza, I couldn't master Paszko, nor Powala either. But not to boast, I can master two such as him. His Teutonic mother will see! Wasn't that knight stronger than the Frisian? And when I struck him from above without a helmet, where did my ax stop? On his teeth it stopped. Or not?"
At this Zbyszko breathed a great sigh of relief and said, "It will be easier to die."
And both began to sigh, then the old nobleman started speaking in a moved voice.
"Then don't fret. Your bones will not seek each other on Judgment Day. I have ordered a coffin made of oak, such that even the canons of St. Mary's do not have better. You will not die like just anyone. Bah! I won't even allow them to cut off your head on the same cloth on which they cut off burghers. I have already agreed with Amylej that he will give a completely new one, so fine that it would even suffice for the king to line his fur coat. And I won't begrudge you masses — don't worry!"
Zbyszko's heart rejoiced, so he bowed to his uncle's hand and repeated, "God reward you."
Sometimes, however, despite all the consolations, a cruel longing seized him. Another time, when Macko came to visit him, barely having greeted him, he asked, looking through the grate in the wall, "What is it like outside?"
"Weather like gold, and the sun warms, so that the whole world is pleasant."
At that, Zbyszko clasped both hands behind his neck and, tilting back his head, said, "Hey, mighty God! To have a horse under you and ride through the fields, the wide fields. A pity to die young! A cruel pity!"
"People die even from horseback!" replied Macko.
"Bah! But how many do they themselves kill first!..."
And he began to ask about the knights he had seen at the king's court. He listened greedily to Macko's tales, and when he learned that Zawisza was going right after the christenings to somewhere far down into Hungary to fight the Turks, he could not restrain himself from exclaiming, "If only they would let me go with him! Let me die at least against the pagans."
But that could not be, and in the meantime something else happened. Namely, both Masovian princesses did not stop thinking about Zbyszko, who had charmed them with his youth and good looks. Finally, Princess Alexandra Ziemowitowa decided to send a letter to the Grand Master. The Grand Master could not, of course, change the sentence passed by the castellan, but he could intercede for the young man with the king. Jagiello, of course, could not properly show mercy when it came to an attack on an envoy, but it seemed certain that he would gladly show it upon the intercession of the Grand Master himself. So hope entered the hearts of both ladies again. The only thing was to find a messenger who would exert every diligence to deliver the letter as quickly as possible and return with an answer.
Hearing of this, old Macko undertook the task without hesitation. The castellan, upon request, set a deadline until which he promised to stay the execution of the sentence. Full of hope, Macko busied himself that same day with preparations for departure, then went to Zbyszko to announce the happy news.
Indeed, at first Zbyszko burst out with such great joy, as if the tower door had already been opened for him. But then he became thoughtful, suddenly gloomy, and said, "Who can expect anything good from the Germans there! Lichtenstein too could have asked the king for mercy — and he would have gained by it, because he would have avoided vengeance — yet he did not want to do anything."
"He has taken offense because we did not want to apologize to him on the road to Tyniec. People don't speak ill of Master Konrad. After all, you have nothing to lose."
"That's true," said Zbyszko, "but don't bow low to him there."
"Why should I bow? I am carrying a letter from Princess Alexandra — that's all."
"Ha! Since you are so good, may God help you there."
Suddenly he looked sharply at his uncle and said, "But if the king pardons me, then Lichtenstein will be mine, not yours. Remember..."
"You are still uncertain of your neck, so don't make any challenges. You have enough of those foolish vows," replied the old man angrily.
Then they embraced — and Zbyszko was left alone. Hope and uncertainty alternately swayed his soul. But when night came, and with it a storm in the sky, when the barred window began to light up with the ominous glow of lightning, and the walls trembled from thunderclaps — when at last the wind burst with its whistle into the tower and extinguished the dim oil lamp by the bed, plunged into darkness, Zbyszko lost all hope again. He could not close his eyes for a moment all night.
"I will not escape death now," he thought, "and nothing will help..."
Nevertheless, the next day, the worthy Princess Anna Januszowa came to visit him, and with her Danusia with her lute at her belt. Zbyszko fell at their feet in turn, then, although he was in distress after a sleepless night, in misery and uncertainty, he did not so far forget his knightly duty as not to show Danusia his amazement at her beauty.
But the princess raised her eyes full of sorrow and said,