Zbyszko was so stunned that for a while he couldn't speak.
"Two weeks?" he asked after a moment.
"But I can't even reach the border in a week! What is this? Surely you didn't tell the castellan why I want to go to Malbork?"
"I wasn't the only one who pleaded for you—Princess Anna did too."
"Well, and what?"
"And what? The old man told her he didn't give a damn about your neck and that he felt sorry for you himself. 'If I could find some law in his favor,' he said, 'or even a pretext, I'd release him entirely—but since I can't, I can't. It won't do this kingdom any good,' he said, 'if people start closing their eyes to the law and making exceptions out of friendship. I won't do that, not even if it were about my kinsman the Toporczyk or my own brother.' That's the kind of inflexible men there are! And then he said: 'We don't need to worry about the Krzyżak, but we're not allowed to shame ourselves before them. What would they and their guests, who come from all over the world, think if I let a nobleman condemned to death go free just so he could go fight them? Would they believe that punishment would ever catch up with him, and that there is any justice in our kingdom? I'd rather cut off one head than expose the king and the kingdom to death.' The princess told him that it was a strange kind of justice that even the king's relative couldn't get a man out of, but the old man replied: 'Even the king himself has the right to grant mercy, but he does not have the right to lawlessness.' Then they started arguing, because the princess got angry: 'Then don't let him rot in the dungeon!' she said. And the castellan replied: 'Fine! Tomorrow I'll order a platform built in the market square.' And with that they parted. Only the Lord Jesus can save you now, poor soul."
A long silence fell.
"What do you mean?" Zbyszko asked in a hollow voice. "So it will happen soon?"
"In two or three days. When there's no way out, there's no way out. I did what I could. I fell at the castellan's feet and begged for mercy, but he kept saying: 'Find me a law or a pretext.' And what can I find? I went to see Father Stanisław of Skarbimierz, to have him come to you with the Lord God. At least you'll have the honor of being confessed by the same man who confessed the queen. But I didn't find him—he was with Princess Anna."
"Maybe with Danushka?"
"No, not there. The girl is getting healthier every day. I'll go to him again tomorrow at daybreak. They say that after his confession, your salvation is certain."
Zbyszko sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head so low that his hair completely covered his face. The old man stared at him for a long time, then began to call softly:
"Zbyszko! Zbyszko!"
The boy lifted his face—it looked more irritated and full of cold determination than anguished.
"What?"
"Listen carefully, because maybe I've found something."
Having said that, he moved closer and began to speak almost in a whisper:
"Have you heard about Prince Witold—how long ago, when he was imprisoned by our present king in Krewo, he escaped from prison disguised as a woman? No woman can stay behind for you, but take my coat, take my hood, and walk out—understand? And maybe they won't notice. For sure. It's dark outside the door. They won't shine a light in your face."
"They saw me yesterday when I left, and no one even looked. Be quiet and listen: They'll find me tomorrow—so what? Cut off my head? What consolation will that be for them, since I'm condemned to die in two or three weeks anyway? And you, once you get out of here, mount your horse and ride straight to Prince Witold. Remind him of yourself, bow to him, and he'll take you in, and you'll be as snug with him as a bug in a rug. People here are saying that the prince's army was crushed by the Tatars. Don't know if it's true, but it could be—the late queen prophesied it. If it is true, then the prince will need knights all the more and will be glad to see you. So stick with him, because there's no better service in the world. If another king loses a war, he's finished, but Prince Witold is so resourceful that after a defeat he becomes even more powerful. And he's generous, and he loves our people fiercely. Tell him everything, just as it happened. Tell him you wanted to go with him against the Tatars, but you couldn't because you were sitting in the tower. God willing, he'll grant you land and peasants, knight you, and intercede with the king for you. He's a good advocate—you'll see! What do you say?"
Zbyszko listened in silence, while Macko, as if excited by his own words, continued:
"You're not meant to die young, but to return to Bogdaniec. And when you return, you take a wife right away, so our line doesn't die out. Only after you have children can you challenge Lichtenstein to a fight to the death, but until then, stay away from seeking vengeance, for if they shot you somewhere in Prussia like they shot me, then there'd be no help for it. Now take my coat, take my hood, and go in God's name."
Having said this, Macko stood up and began to undress—but Zbyszko also rose, stopped him, and said:
"I won't do what you want, so help me God and the holy cross."
"Why?" Macko asked in astonishment.
"Because I won't."
Macko turned pale with emotion and anger.
"I wish you'd never been born."
"You told the castellan," said Zbyszko, "that you'd give your head for mine."
"How do you know?"
"Powała z Taczewa told me."
"So what of it?"
"What of it? What did the castellan say to you—that shame would fall on me and on our whole line? Wouldn't the shame be even greater if I ran away from here and left you to face the law's vengeance?"
"What vengeance? What can the law do to me when I'm going to die anyway? Use your head, for God's mercy!"
"All the more reason. May God punish me if I abandon you here, old and sick. Tfu, shame!"
Silence fell; only Macko's heavy, rattling breath could be heard, and the calls of the archers standing guard at the gates. Outside, deep night had already fallen.
"Listen," Macko finally said in a broken voice. "There was no shame for Prince Witold to escape from Krewo like that—and there won't be any for you either."
"Hey," Zbyszko replied with a certain sadness, "Prince Witold is a grand prince: he has a crown from the king's hands, wealth, and dominion—while I am a poor nobleman, with only my honor."
After a moment, he added, as if with a sudden outburst of anger:
"Don't you understand that I love you too, and that I won't trade your head for mine?"
At that, Macko rose on unsteady legs, stretched out his hands, and—even though the natures of men in those days were as hard as if forged from iron—suddenly roared in a heart-rending voice:
"Zbyszko!"
The next day, court servants began hauling beams to the market square for the scaffold, which was to be erected opposite the main gate of the town hall.
The princess, however, was still consulting with Wojciech Jastrzębiec, with Father Stanisław of Skarbimierz, and with other learned canons versed in both written and customary law. The castellan's words encouraged her in these efforts—he had declared that if a "law or pretext" could be found, he would not hesitate to free Zbyszko. So they deliberated long and earnestly, wondering whether something could be found, and although Father Stanisław had prepared Zbyszko for death and given him the Last Sacraments, he returned straight from the dungeon to the council, which lasted almost until dawn.
Meanwhile, the day of the execution arrived. From early morning, crowds streamed into the market square, for Zbyszko's head aroused more curiosity than any other, and on top of that, the weather had turned beautifully. News of the condemned man's youth and extraordinary beauty had also spread among the women, so the entire road leading from the castle bloomed like flowers from the throngs of gaily dressed burgher women. In the windows of the market square and on the projecting platforms, one could see bonnets, gold and velvet forehead bands, or the flaxen-haired heads of girls adorned only with wreaths of roses and lilies. The town councilors, although the matter was not actually theirs, all came out to add to their own importance and stationed themselves near the scaffold, just behind the knights, who, wishing to show their sympathy for the young man, had gathered in a dense crowd closest to the platform. Behind them, a motley crowd of lesser merchants and craftsmen in guild colors pressed together. Schoolboys and children in general, pushed to the back, circled like bothersome flies among the crowd, squeezing in wherever a little free space appeared. Above that packed mass of human heads rose the platform, covered with new cloth, on which stood three men: the executioner—a broad-shouldered, fearsome German dressed in a red coat and hood, with a heavy double-edged sword in his hand—and his two assistants with bare arms and ropes at their belts. At their feet stood a block and a coffin also draped in cloth. On the towers of St. Mary's Church, bells were tolling, filling the city with their bronze sound and frightening flocks of jackdaws and pigeons. People looked now at the road leading from the castle, now at the platform and the executioner standing on it with his sword gleaming in the sunlight, and finally at the knights, whom the townsfolk always regarded with greed and respect. This time there was plenty to see, for the most famous knights had formed a square around the scaffold. They admired the breadth of Zawisza Czarny's shoulders and his gravity, his raven hair falling over his shoulders; they admired the stocky, square figure and bandy legs of Zyndram of Maszkowice, the gigantic, almost superhuman height of Paszko the Robber of Biskupice, the fearsome face of Wojciech of Wodzinek, the beauty of Dobko of Oleśnica—who had defeated twelve German knights in a tournament in Torun—Zygmunt of Bobowa, who had similarly distinguished himself against the Hungarians in Koszyce, Krzon of Koziegłowy, the terrible Lis of Targowisko in hand-to-hand combat, and Slaszek of Charbimowice, who could outrun a horse in full gallop. Universal attention was also drawn by Macko of Bogdaniec, with his pale face, supported by Floryan of Korytnica and Marcin of Wrocimowice. Everyone assumed he was the condemned man's father.
But the greatest curiosity was aroused by Powała z Taczewa, who, standing in the front row, held on his powerful arm Danushka, dressed entirely in white, with a green wreath of rue on her blond hair. People did not understand what this meant or why this white-clad little girl should watch the execution of the condemned man. Some said she was his sister; others guessed she was the young knight's beloved, but even those could not explain either her attire or her presence near the scaffold. Nevertheless, in all hearts the sight of her face—as rosy as an apple but bathed in tears—aroused sympathy and emotion. In the dense crowds, people began to mutter against the castellan's inflexibility, against the harshness of the law—and those mutterings gradually turned into a downright threatening rumble. Finally, here and there voices began to rise, saying that if the scaffold were torn down, the execution would have to be postponed.
The crowd stirred and swayed. Word passed from mouth to mouth that if the king had been present, he would undoubtedly have pardoned the youth, who, as they assured one another, had committed no crime.
But everything fell silent when distant shouts announced the approach of the king's archers and halberdiers, among whom walked the condemned man. Soon the procession appeared in the market square. It was led by the burial brotherhood, dressed in black cloaks reaching to the ground, with veils over their faces that had cut-out holes for the eyes. The people were afraid of these somber figures and fell silent at the sight of them. Behind them came a detachment of crossbowmen, composed of select Lithuanians dressed in uncured elk-skin coats. It was a unit of the royal guard. At the rear of the procession, the halberds of another detachment were visible, and in the middle, between the court clerk, who was to read the verdict, and Father Stanisław of Skarbimierz, who carried a crucifix, walked Zbyszko.
All eyes now turned to him, and from every window and platform, female figures leaned out. Zbyszko walked dressed in his captured white jacket, embroidered with golden griffins and trimmed with gold fringe at the bottom—and in that splendid attire he seemed to the eyes of the crowd like a little prince or a page from a great house. From his height, from his shoulders visible under the tight clothing, from his sturdy thighs and broad chest, he seemed a fully grown man, but above that manly figure rose a head that was almost childish—and a young face, with the first down above his lips—and at the same time a beautiful face, that of a royal page, with golden hair cut evenly above the eyebrows and left long over the shoulders. He walked with a steady, springy step, but with a pale brow. At times he looked at the crowd as if half asleep, at times he raised his eyes to the church towers, to the flocks of jackdaws and the swinging bells that were tolling his last hour; at times, finally, a look of surprise appeared on his face—that those sounds, the women's sobbing, and all this ceremony were for him. In the market square he finally saw the platform from afar and on it the red silhouette of the executioner. Then he shuddered and crossed himself—and the priest at that same moment offered him the crucifix to kiss. A few steps further, a bunch of cornflowers fell at his feet, thrown by a young girl from the common people. Zbyszko bent down, picked it up, and then smiled at the girl, who burst into loud weeping. But he evidently thought that before these crowds and before the women waving handkerchiefs from the windows, he must die bravely and leave behind at least the memory of a "stout lad," so he summoned all his courage and will, tossed his hair back with a sudden movement, raised his head even higher, and walked proudly, almost like a victor after a knightly joust when he is led to receive his prize. They moved forward slowly, however, because the crowd before them was growing ever larger and reluctant to make way. In vain the Lithuanian crossbowmen leading the procession kept shouting, "Eyk szalin, eyk szalin!" (Out of the way). People pretended not to understand what those words meant, and it became increasingly tight. Although the burgher population of Krakow at that time was two-thirds German, threatening curses against the Krzyżak resounded all around: "Shame, shame! May those cross-wolves perish, if children are to be exterminated for their sake! Disgrace for the king and the kingdom!" The Lithuanians, seeing the resistance, took down their cocked crossbows from their shoulders and began to glare at the people, but they did not dare shoot into the crowd without orders. The captain, however, sent the halberdiers forward, for it was easier to clear a path with halberds—and in this way they reached the knights standing in a square around the scaffold.