—Don’t you wonder at her, because if Macko doesn’t bring back a good answer, or doesn’t return at all, you’ll soon be marveling at better things in heaven, poor soul.
Then she began to weep, thinking about the young knight’s uncertain fate, and Danusia immediately joined in. Zbyszko bowed to their feet once more, his heart softened by their tears like wax in warmth. He didn’t love Danusia as a man loves a woman, yet he felt he loved her with his whole soul, and that at the sight of her something stirred in his breast, as if a second man dwelt there—less fierce, less headlong, less warlike, but instead longing for sweet affection. Finally, a profound grief seized him at having to leave her and being unable to fulfill his vow to her.
“I won’t lay peacock crests at your feet now, poor girl,” he said. “But if I stand before God’s face, then I’ll say: ‘Forgive me, Lord, my sins, but whatever good there is on earth, give it to no one else but the lady Jurandówna of Spychow.’ ”
“You have only known each other a short time,” said the Duchess. “God grant that it not be in vain.”
Zbyszko began to recall everything that had happened at the Tyniec inn, and he grew quite sentimental. Finally, he asked Danusia to sing the same song she had sung when he snatched her from the bench and brought her to the Duchess.
So Danusia, though she was not in the mood to sing, immediately lifted her head toward the vaulted ceiling and, closing her eyes like a little bird, began:
“If I had little wings, like a goose, I’d fly after Jaśko to Silesia! I’d sit on a Silesian fence… Look, Jaśko…”
But suddenly, abundant tears flowed from under her lowered lashes, and she could not sing any longer. Zbyszko snatched her up in his arms, just as he had once done at the Tyniec inn, and began to walk around the room with her, repeating in rapture:
“It’s not a lady I would seek in you. If only God would save me, if only you would grow up and your parents would allow it, then I would take you, girl!… Hey!…”
Danusia, embracing his neck, hid her tear-stained face on his shoulder, and in him grief grew ever greater, flowing from the depths of a Slavic rustic nature, turning in that simple soul almost into a field song:
“Then I would take you, girl! / Then I would take you!…”
Then an event occurred that made all other matters lose all significance in people’s eyes. On the evening of June 21, news spread through the castle of the queen’s sudden illness. The summoned physicians remained with Bishop Wysz all night in her chamber, and meanwhile it was soon learned from the serving women that the lady was threatened by premature labor. The castellan of Krakow, Jaśko Topór z Tęczyna, sent messengers that same night to the absent king.
The next morning, the news spread through the city and surrounding area. It was a Sunday, so crowds filled all the churches, in which priests ordered prayers for the queen’s health. Then all doubt ceased. After the service, the knightly guests who had already gathered for the expected festivities, the nobility, and merchant deputations went to the castle; guilds and confraternities turned out with banners. From noon onward, countless swarms of people surrounded Wawel, among whom the royal archers kept order, commanding peace and silence. The city was almost completely deserted, and only from time to time groups of country folk passed through the empty streets, who had also learned of the beloved lady’s illness and were heading toward the castle.
Finally, at the main gate appeared the bishop and the castellan, and with them cathedral canons, royal councilors, and knights. These spread out along the walls among the people, with faces heralding news, but they began with a stern order that all outcries be restrained, for they could harm the patient. Then they announced to all and sundry that the queen had given birth to a daughter. The news filled hearts with joy, especially since at the same time it was learned that although the labor was premature, there was no apparent danger to either mother or child.
The crowds began to disperse, for it was forbidden to shout near the castle, and everyone wanted to give vent to their joy. And so, when the streets leading to the market square filled up, songs and joyful shouts soon arose. Nor were they troubled that a daughter had been born. “Was it so bad,” they said, “that King Louis had no sons and the kingdom fell to Jadwiga? Through her marriage to Jagiello, the power of the state doubled. So it will be now. Where would one find such an heiress as our princess will be, when neither the Roman emperor nor any other king possesses so great a state, such vast lands, nor so numerous a knighthood! The mightiest monarchs of the earth will vie for her hand, they will bow to the queen and king, they will come to Krakow, and we merchants will profit from it, not to mention that some new kingdom, Bohemian or Hungarian, will unite with our kingdom.”
Thus the merchants spoke among themselves, and joy became more universal with each moment. Feasting took place in private homes and inns. The market square swarmed with lanterns and torches. In the suburbs, the Krakow region peasants, who were increasingly gathering in the city, camped by their wagons. The Jews deliberated at the synagogue in Casimir. Until late into the night, almost until dawn, the market square seethed, especially near the town hall and the scales, as during great fairs. People exchanged news with one another; they sent for it to the castle and crowded around those returning with tidings.
The worst of them was that Father Bishop Piotr had baptized the child that same night, from which they concluded that it must be very weak. Experienced townswomen, however, cited cases in which children born half-dead regained strength for life precisely after baptism. So they fortified themselves with hope, which was strengthened by the name given to the girl. It was said that no Boniface or Bonifacia could die immediately after birth, for they were destined to do something good, but in the first years, even more in the first months of life, a child can do neither evil nor good.
The next day, however, unfavorable news came from the castle about both the infant and the mother, and it agitated the city. In the churches, there was a crush all day, as during an indulgence. Votive offerings poured in for the health of the queen and the princess. With emotion, they saw poor peasants offering quarters of grain, lambs, hens, little wreaths of dried mushrooms, or baskets of nuts. Substantial offerings flowed from the knighthood, from merchants, from craftsmen. Messengers were sent to miraculous places. Astrologers studied the stars. In Krakow itself, solemn processions were ordered. All guilds and all confraternities turned out. The whole city bloomed with banners. There was also a procession of children, for it was thought that innocent beings could most easily beg God for grace. Through the city gates, ever new crowds from the surrounding area arrived.
And so day flowed after day amid the constant ringing of bells, amid the clamor, processions, and services in the churches. But when a week had passed and both the noble patient and the child still lived, hope began to enter hearts. It seemed impossible to people that God would take prematurely the ruler of the state, who, having done so much for it, would have to leave a great work unfinished—and an apostle who, by the sacrifice of her own happiness, brought the last pagan nation in Europe to Christianity. Scholars recalled how much she had done for the academy, clergy for God’s glory, statesmen for peace among Christian monarchs, scholars and jurists for justice, the poor for poverty, and none could comprehend that a life so necessary for the kingdom and the whole world could be cut short prematurely.
Meanwhile, on July 13, funeral bells announced the death of the child. The city seethed again and anxiety seized people, and crowds again besieged Wawel, inquiring about the queen’s health. But this time no one came out with good news. On the contrary, the faces of the lords entering or leaving the castle were gloomy, and each day gloomier. It was said that Father Stanisław of Skarbimierz, master of liberal arts in Krakow, no longer left the queen’s side, and that she received Holy Communion daily. It was also said that after each communion, her chamber filled with heavenly light. Some even saw it through the windows, but this sight rather terrified the hearts devoted to the lady, as a sign that the afterlife had already begun for her.
Some, however, did not believe such a terrible thing could happen, and they fortified themselves with hope that the just heavens would be satisfied with one sacrifice. Meanwhile, on Friday morning, July 17, it spread among the people that the queen was dying. Everyone who was alive hurried to the castle. The city became so empty that only the crippled remained, for even mothers with infants hastened to the gates. Shops were closed; no food was cooked. All affairs ceased, and instead beneath Wawel there blackened one sea of people, restless, terrified, but silent.
Then at the thirteenth hour of the afternoon, a bell sounded from the cathedral tower. They did not understand immediately what it meant, yet anxiety began to raise the hair on their heads. All heads and all eyes turned toward the tower, toward the bell swinging with ever greater momentum, whose mournful wail was repeated by others in the city: at the Franciscans, at Holy Trinity, at St. Mary’s—and far beyond, as far as the city stretched. At last they understood what those wails meant; human souls were filled with terror and such pain as if those bronze hearts of the bells struck directly into the hearts of all present. Suddenly a black banner appeared on the tower with a large death’s head in the middle, beneath which two human thighbones crossed in white. Then all doubt ceased: The queen had given up her spirit to God.
Beneath the castle there arose roars, the weeping of a hundred thousand people, and mingled with the somber sounds of the bells. Some threw themselves on the ground, others tore their garments or scratched their faces, others stared at the walls in mute stupor, some groaned dully, some, stretching their hands toward the church and the queen’s chamber, called for a miracle and God’s mercy. Others repeated, flooded with tears and groaning, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” The crowds wanted to enter the castle to look once more at the beloved face of the lady. They were not let in, but were promised that the body would soon be displayed in the church, and then everyone could view it and pray beside it. Then toward evening, the somber crowds began to return to the city, telling each other about the queen’s last moments, about the future funeral, and about the miracles that would take place at her body and around her tomb.
A gloomy sadness fell upon the city, upon the whole country, and not only to the common people but to all it seemed that with the queen, the auspicious star for the kingdom had gone out. Even among the Krakow lords there were those who looked darkly into the future. They began to ask themselves and others questions: what will happen now? Does Jagiello have the right to rule in the kingdom after the queen’s death, or will he return to his Lithuania and be content with the grand ducal throne? Some predicted—and as it turned out, not without reason—that he himself would wish to abdicate, and that in such case vast lands would fall away from the crown, attacks from Lithuania would begin again, along with bloody vengeance from the vengeful inhabitants of the kingdom, the Order would grow stronger, the Roman emperor and the Hungarian king would grow stronger—and the kingdom, yesterday one of the most powerful in the world, would come to ruin and disgrace.
The merchants, for whom the vast Lithuanian and Ruthenian lands had opened up, made pious vows in anticipation of losses that Jagiello would remain on the throne, but in that case a swift war with the Order was predicted. It was known that only the queen had been restraining it. People now recalled how once, angered by the greed and rapacity of the Teutonic Knights, she had said to them in a prophetic vision: “As long as I live, I restrain the hand and just wrath of my husband, but remember that after my death, punishment for your sins will fall upon you!” They, in pride and blindness, were not afraid of war, counting that when after the queen’s death the spell of her holiness no longer restrained the influx of volunteers from Western states, then thousands of warriors from Germany, Burgundy, France, and even more distant countries would come to their aid.
But the death of Jadwiga was nevertheless such a momentous event that the Teutonic envoy Lichtenstein, without even waiting for the king’s arrival, set off as quickly as possible to Malbork to report the important and somewhat threatening news to the Grand Master and the Chapter. The Hungarian, Austrian, imperial, and Bohemian envoys set out after him or sent messengers to their monarchs.
Jagiello arrived in Krakow in deep despair. At first he declared to the lords that he no longer wished to reign without the queen and that he would go to his hereditary lands in Lithuania, then he fell into a kind of stupor, refused to decide any matters, did not answer questions, and at times fell into a terrible rage at himself for having left, for not being present at the queen’s death, for not having said goodbye to her and not having heard her last words and instructions. In vain did Stanisław of Skarbimierz and Bishop Wysz explain to him that the queen’s illness had come unexpectedly, and that according to human calculations he had had every time to return if the labor had occurred at the proper time. This brought him no comfort, nor did it soothe his grief. “I am no king without her,” he replied to the bishop, “only a repentant sinner who will know no comfort.” Then he fixed his eyes on the ground and no one could get another word out of him.
Meanwhile, all minds were occupied with the queen’s funeral. From all over the country, new crowds of lords, nobles, and common folk began to gather, especially the poor, who expected abundant profits from alms at the funeral ceremony, which was to last a whole month. The queen’s body was placed in the cathedral on an elevation, arranged so that the wider part of the coffin, where the deceased’s head rested, was situated considerably higher than the lower part. It was arranged thus deliberately so that the people could better see the queen’s face. In the cathedral, unceasing services were held; thousands of wax candles burned at the catafalque, and amid these lights and among flowers she lay, calm, smiling, like a white rose, with her hands crossed on her laurel gown. The people saw a saint in her; the possessed, cripples, and sick children were brought to her.