Meanwhile, Zbyszko had been completely forgotten. For who, faced with such a colossal tragedy, could remember an ordinary noble squire and his imprisonment in the castle tower? Still, Zbyszko learned from his jailers about the queen’s illness. He heard the murmur of the crowd outside the castle, and when he heard their weeping and the tolling of bells, he fell to his knees. Remembering his own fate, he mourned the death of his beloved lady with all his soul. It seemed to him that something had died for him along with her, that in the face of such a death, life wasn’t worth living for anyone.
The echo of the funeral—church bells, processional hymns, and the wailing of the crowds—reached him for weeks on end. During that time he grew sullen, lost his appetite for food and sleep, and paced through his underground cell like a wild beast in a cage.
Solitude weighed on him. There were days when even the jailer didn’t bring him fresh food or water, so occupied was everyone with the queen’s funeral. Since her death, no one had visited him: not the duchess, not Danusia, not Powala of Taczew, who had once shown him so much kindness, not even the merchant Amylej, an acquaintance of Macko. With bitterness, Zbyszko thought that now that Macko was gone, everyone had forgotten him. At times it occurred to him that the law might forget him too, and that he would rot in this prison until he died. Then he prayed for death.
Finally, when a month had passed since the queen’s funeral and a second began, he started to doubt Macko’s return. Macko had promised to ride quickly and spare no horse. Malbork wasn’t at the end of the world. In twelve weeks you could get there and back, especially if you were in a hurry.
“But maybe he’s not in a hurry either,” Zbyszko thought with resentment. “Maybe he’s found a woman along the way and wants to take her to Bogdaniec to have his own children, while I wait here for God’s mercy for ages.”
He lost track of time. He stopped talking to the jailer altogether and only guessed from the cobwebs that kept spreading over the iron grate in the window that autumn was approaching. He now spent whole hours on his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair, which had grown far past his shoulders. Half-asleep, half-numb, he didn’t even lift his head when the guard spoke to him while bringing his rations.
Then one day the hinges creaked, and a familiar voice called from the prison threshold:
“Zbyszko!”
“Uncle!” Zbyszko cried, leaping from the pallet.
Macko grabbed him in his arms, then cupped the boy’s fair head in his hands and began to kiss him. Grief, bitterness, and longing swelled in the young man’s heart so that he wept on his uncle’s chest like a small child.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he sobbed.
“Not far from the truth,” Macko replied.
Then Zbyszko lifted his eyes and looked at him. “What happened to you?”
He stared in astonishment at the old warrior’s gaunt, hollow face, pale as linen, at his stooped figure and graying hair.
“What happened?” he repeated.
Macko sat down on the pallet and breathed heavily for a moment.
“What happened?” he said at last. “I had barely crossed the border when Germans shot me with a crossbow in the forest. Robber knights, you know? ... I still have trouble breathing. If God hadn’t sent me help, you wouldn’t have seen me here.”
“Who saved you?”
“Jurand of Spychów,” Macko replied.
A moment of silence passed.
“They attacked me, and about half a day later he attacked them. Barely half escaped him. He took me to his keep, and there in Spychów I fought death for three weeks. God didn’t let me die, and though I still feel terrible, I came back.”
“So you didn’t get to Malbork?”
“What was I supposed to ride with? They stripped me clean and took the letter along with everything else. I came back to ask Princess Ziemowitowa for another, but I crossed paths with her on the road and missed her. I don’t know if I’ll catch up to her—I might be heading to the next world myself.”
He spat into his palm and held it out to Zbyszko, showing clean blood.
“See?”
After a moment he added, “It seems it’s God’s will.”
They both fell silent under the weight of gloomy thoughts. Then Zbyszko said, “So you keep coughing up blood?”
“How can I not, when there was half a span of point stuck between my ribs! You’d cough too, don’t doubt it! But at Jurand of Spychów’s I got better. Only now I’m terribly tired again—the road is long, and I hurried.”
“What was the point of hurrying?”
“I wanted to catch Princess Alexandra and get another letter from her. And Jurand of Spychów said: ‘Go, and come back with the letter to Spychów. I have a few Germans under my floorboards; I’ll release one on knightly oath, and he’ll carry the letter to the master.’ He always keeps a few down there—vengeance for his wife’s death—and he likes to hear them moaning and rattling chains at night, because he’s a vengeful man. You understand?”
“I understand. But what I don’t get is how you lost the first letter. If Jurand caught the ones who attacked you, the letter should have been on them.”
“He didn’t catch them all. About five got away. That’s our luck.”
Macko cleared his throat, spat more blood, and groaned a little from the pain in his chest.
“They shot you badly,” Zbyszko said. “How was it? An ambush?”
“From bushes so thick you couldn’t see a step ahead. And I was riding without armor—merchants told me the region was safe—and it was hot.”
“Who led the robbers? A Teutonic Knight?”
“Not a brother of the Order, but a German, a man from Chełmno in Lentz, famous for robbery and plunder.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s on a chain at Jurand’s. But he also has two Masovian noblemen in his dungeon that he wants to exchange for himself.”
Silence fell again.
“Dear Jesus,” Zbyszko said at last. “So Lichtenstein will live, and that one from Lentz too, while we have to die without revenge. They’ll cut my head off, and you won’t even make it through winter.”
“Bah! I won’t last till winter anyway. If only I could save you…”
“Did you see anyone here?”
“I went to the castellan of Krakow, because when I heard Lichtenstein had left, I thought they might show you mercy.”
“Lichtenstein left?”
“Right after the queen’s death, for Malbork. So I went to the castellan, but he said: ‘We’re not cutting off your nephew’s head to flatter Lichtenstein. It’s the verdict, and whether Lichtenstein is here or not doesn’t matter. Even if he died, it wouldn’t change anything, because the law is based on justice, not like a coat you can turn inside out. The king can show mercy, but no one else.’”
“And where is the king?”
“He went to Rus after the funeral.”
“So there’s no way out.”
“None. The castellan also said: ‘I feel sorry for him, because Princess Anna intercedes for him, but if I can’t, I can’t…’”
“Is Princess Anna still here?”
“God bless her! She’s a good lady. She’s still here because Jurandówna fell ill, and the princess loves her like her own child.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Danuśka’s sick too? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know! The princess says someone put a spell on her.”
“It must have been Lichtenstein! No one else, that dog’s kin!”
“Maybe. But what can you do to him? Nothing.”
“So that’s why everyone forgot me here—because she was sick too…”
Having said this, Zbyszko began pacing the room with long strides, then seized Macko’s hand, kissed it, and said: “May God reward you for everything, because you’re dying on my account. But since you’ve ridden all the way to Prussia, do one more thing for me before you’re completely bedridden. Go to the castellan and ask him to release me on knightly oath for just twelve weeks. Then I’ll come back and they can cut my throat. But it can’t be that we die without any revenge. You understand? I’ll go to Malbork and send Lichtenstein a challenge. It must be done. His death or mine!”
Macko rubbed his forehead. “I’ll go, I’ll go, but will the castellan allow it?”
“I’ll give my knightly word. Twelve weeks—that’s all I need…”
“What are you saying—twelve weeks! What if you’re wounded and don’t come back? What would they think…”
“Then I’ll crawl back on all fours if I have to. But don’t worry! And look, maybe by then the king will return from Rus, and I can beg for mercy.”
“That’s true,” Macko said.
But a moment later he added: “Because the castellan also told me: ‘We forgot about your nephew because of the queen’s death, but now let’s get this over with.’”
“Ah, he’ll allow it,” Zbyszko replied with confidence. “He knows a nobleman keeps his word. Whether they cut off my head now or after St. Michael’s Day, it’s all the same to him.”
“Well! I’ll go today.”
“Go to Amylej first and rest a bit. Have them put some healing salve on your wound. Then go to the castellan tomorrow.”
“Right. God be with you.”
“God be with you.”
They embraced, and Macko turned toward the door. But on the threshold he stopped and frowned as if suddenly remembering something.
“Bah, but you haven’t been knighted yet. Lichtenstein will say he won’t fight someone who’s not a knight. Then what will you do?”
Zbyszko was troubled, but only for a moment. Then he said: “What about in war? Does only a knight fight a knight?”
“War is war; single combat is different.”
“True… but… wait… We need to think… Ah, I’ve got it! Prince Janusz will knight me. If the princess and Danuśka ask him, he will. And on the way I’ll also fight Mikołaj z Długolasu’s son in Masovia.”
“Why?”
“Because Mikołaj—you know, the one who serves the princess and is called Obuch—called Danuśka a ‘hobgoblin.’”
Macko stared at him in disbelief. Zbyszko, as if to explain himself better, continued: “I can’t let that go, but I won’t fight Mikołaj—he must be about eighty.”
Macko replied: “Listen, boy. I’m sorry your head will fall, but not your brains, because you’re stupid as a goat.”
“Why are you so angry?”
Macko said nothing and tried to leave, but Zbyszko rushed to him again. “How is Danuśka? Is she well? Don’t get angry for nothing. You’ve been gone so long.”
He bent again to kiss the old man’s hand. Macko shrugged, but replied more gently: “Jurandówna is well, but they still keep her in her chamber. Farewell.”
Zbyszko was left alone, but he felt reborn in body and soul. It cheered him to think he would have three more months of life, that he would travel to distant lands, find Lichtenstein, and fight him to the death.
The very thought filled his chest with joy. To feel a horse under him for twelve weeks, ride through the wide world, fight, and not die without revenge—that was something. And afterward, whatever happened—that was a huge stretch of time. Maybe the king would return from Rus and pardon him. Maybe the war everyone had been predicting would break out. Maybe even the castellan, after three months, seeing the conqueror of the proud Lichtenstein, would say: “Go now, to the forests and fields!” Zbyszko clearly felt that no one except the Teutonic Knight bore him any real malice, and that the stern lord of Krakow had only sentenced him as a matter of necessity.
So hope grew stronger in him, for he didn’t doubt they would grant him these three months. On the contrary, he thought they might even give him more. It would never occur to the old lord of Tęczyn that a nobleman who had sworn on his knightly honor would break his word.
So when Macko came to the prison the next day at dusk, Zbyszko, barely able to sit still, jumped toward him from the threshold and asked: “Did he allow it?”
Macko sat down on the pallet, unable to stand from great weakness. He breathed heavily for a moment and finally said: “The castellan said this: ‘If you need to divide land or property, I’ll release your nephew for one or two weeks on knightly oath, but not longer.’”