Then the duchess entered through the door—a middle-aged woman with a smiling face, dressed in a red cloak and a tight green gown, with a gilded belt at her hips that ran along her waist and was fastened low with a large buckle. Behind the lady came her court maidens, some older, some not yet grown up, wearing pink and lilac wreaths on their heads, most with lutes in their hands. There were also those carrying whole bunches of fresh flowers, apparently gathered along the way. The room became crowded, for behind the maidens appeared several courtiers and young pages. They all entered briskly, with cheerfulness on their faces, talking loudly or singing, as if intoxicated by the serene night and the bright moonlight. Among the courtiers were two minstrels, one with a lute, the other with a fiddle at his belt. One of the girls, still a young maid, perhaps twelve years old, also carried behind the duchess a small lute studded with copper nails.
“Praise be to Jesus Christ!” said the duchess, stopping in the middle of the hall.
“Now and forever, Amen!” replied those present, bowing deeply.
“And where is the host?”
The German, hearing the summons, stepped forward and knelt in the German manner.
“We will stop here for rest and refreshment,” said the lady. “Be quick about it, for we are hungry.”
The burghers had already left, and now two local nobles, along with Macko of Bogdaniec and young Zbyszko, bowed again and intended to leave the hall, not wanting to disturb the court.
But the duchess stopped them.
“You are nobles: you won’t disturb! Make acquaintance with the courtiers. Where does God lead you from?”
They then began to state their names, coats of arms, war cries, and the villages from which they took their titles. Then the lady, hearing from knight Macko where he was returning from, clapped her hands and said:
“What a coincidence! Tell us about Vilnius, about my brother and sister. Will Prince Witold come here for the christening?”
“He would like to, but he doesn’t know if he will be able to; for that reason he sent ahead a silver cradle through priests and boyars as a gift to the queen. And with that cradle my nephew and I traveled, guarding it on the way.”
“So the cradle is here? I would like to see it. Entirely silver?”
“Entirely silver, but it’s not here. They took it to Krakow.”
“And what are you doing in Tyniec?”
“We turned in here to the monastery’s administrator, our relative, to place under the care of the worthy monks what the war brought us and what the prince gifted.”
“So God has blessed you. Worthy spoils. But tell me, why is your brother uncertain whether he will come?”
“Because he is preparing an expedition against the Tatars.”
“I know that; but it troubles me that the queen did not prophesy a fortunate end to this expedition, and whatever she prophesies always comes true.”
Macko smiled.
“Eh, our holy lady, there’s no denying it, but with Prince Witold many of our knights will go, good men, against whom no one can easily stand.”
“And you, will you not go?”
“Because I was sent with the cradle among others, and for five years I have not taken off my armor,” replied Macko, pointing to the grooves pressed into his elk-leather tunic from the armor, “but let me rest a bit, and I will go; and even if I do not go myself, I will give this nephew Zbyszko to Lord Zbytk of Melsztyn, under whose command all our knights will go.”
Duchess Danuta looked at Zbyszko’s handsome figure, but the further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a monk from the monastery, who, having greeted the duchess, began to reproach her humbly that she had not sent a messenger to announce her arrival and that she had not stopped at the monastery but at an ordinary inn, unworthy of her majesty. After all, the monastery had no shortage of houses and buildings where even a common man could find hospitality, let alone a majesty, especially the wife of the prince, from whose ancestors and relatives the abbey had received so many benefactions.
But the duchess answered cheerfully:
“We only stepped in here to stretch our legs, and in the morning we must go to Krakow. We slept during the day and travel by night for the coolness, and since the cocks have already crowed, I did not want to wake the devout monks, especially with such a company, which thinks more of singing and dancing than of rest.”
When the monk insisted, she added:
“No. We will stay here. Time will pass well listening to secular songs, but we will come to the church for matins to begin the day with God.”
“There will be a mass for the prosperity of the gracious prince and gracious duchess,” said the monk.
“My husband the prince will only arrive in four or five days.”
“The Lord God can grant happiness even from afar, and meanwhile allow us, the poor, to at least bring some wine from the monastery.”
“We will gladly repay,” said the duchess.
When the monk had left, she began to call:
“Hey, Danusia! Danusia! Climb onto the bench and gladden our hearts with the same song you sang in Zator.”
Hearing this, the courtiers quickly placed a bench in the middle of the room. The minstrels sat on its edges, and between them stood that young maid who had carried the lute studded with copper nails behind the duchess. On her head she wore a little wreath, her hair loose over her shoulders, a blue dress, and red slippers with long tips. Standing on the bench, she seemed a small child, but a wonderfully beautiful one.
“Go on, Danusia! Go on!” called the court maidens.
She then took her lute before her, raised her head like a bird about to sing, and closing her little eyes, began in a silvery voice:
“If I had little wings, Like a goose, I’d fly away, I’d fly after Jaś, To Silesia, far away!”
The minstrels immediately accompanied her, one on a fiddle, the other on a large lute; the duchess, who loved secular songs above all else, began to sway her head from side to side, and the girl sang on in a thin, childish, and fresh voice, like the singing of birds in summer and spring:
“I would sit upon a Silesian fence, Look, Jaś, at the poor orphan here.”
And again the minstrels accompanied. Young Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, who, accustomed since childhood to war and its harsh sights, had never seen anything like this in his life, nudged the shoulder of a Mazur standing next to him and asked:
“Who is that?”
“That is a girl from the duchess’s court. We have no shortage of minstrels who cheer the court, but she is the dearest little minstrel, and the duchess listens to no one else’s songs so eagerly.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I thought she was an angel and I can’t stop looking. What is her name?”
“Did you not hear? Danusia. And her father is Jurand of Spychów, a powerful and valiant lord, who belongs to the knights who bear the banner.”
“Hey! Human eyes have never seen such a one.”
“Everyone loves her, for her singing and her beauty.”
“And which knight is hers?”
“But she is still a child.”
Further conversation was again interrupted by Danusia’s singing. Zbyszko looked from the side at her fair hair, at her raised head, at her half-closed eyes, and at her whole figure, illuminated both by the glow of wax candles and by the moonlight streaming through the open windows—and he became more and more amazed. It seemed to him that he had seen her before, but he could not remember whether in a dream or somewhere in Krakow on a church window pane.
And again, nudging the courtier, he asked in a low voice:
“Is she from your court?”
“Her mother came from Lithuania with Duchess Anna Danuta, who married her to Count Jurand of Spychów. She was beautiful and of a powerful family, dear to the duchess above all other maidens, and she herself loved the duchess. For that reason, she gave her daughter the same name, Anna Danuta. But five years ago, when the Germans attacked our court near Zlotoryja, she died of fright. Then the duchess took the little girl and has raised her ever since. The father often comes to court and is glad to see his child growing up healthy in the prince’s favor. Only, whenever he looks at her, he is overcome with tears, remembering his late wife, and then he returns to seek vengeance on the Germans for his cruel wrong. He loved his wife as no one in all Masovia has ever loved theirs—and he has already killed many Germans for her sake.”
And Zbyszko’s eyes lit up at once and the veins swelled on his forehead.
“So the Germans killed her mother?” he asked.
“They killed her and they didn’t kill her. She herself died of fright. Five years ago there was peace, no one thought of war, and everyone traveled safely. The prince went to build a tower in Zlotoryja, without an army, only with his court, as usual in time of peace. Meanwhile, the treacherous Teutonic Knights attacked, without declaring war, without any reason... They did not fear God, nor did they remember that all benefactions had come to them from his ancestors, they tied the prince himself to a horse and kidnapped him, beat people. The prince was long in their captivity, and only when King Władysław threatened them with war did they release him out of fear; but during that attack, Danusia’s mother died, because her heart choked her, rising to her throat.”
“And you, sire, were you there? What is your name, for I have forgotten?”
“My name is Mikołaj z Długolasu, and they call me Obuch. I was at the attack. I saw how a German, with peacock feathers on his helmet, wanted to tie Danusia’s mother to his saddle, and how she turned white before his eyes on the rope. They also cut me with a halberd, from which I bear a mark.”
Having said this, he showed a deep scar on his skull, running from under his hair to his eyebrow.
A moment of silence followed. Zbyszko began to look at Danusia again. Then he asked:
“And you said, sire, that she has no knight?”
But he did not wait for an answer, for at that moment the singing stopped. One of the minstrels, a fat and heavy man, suddenly stood up, which made the bench tilt to one side. Danusia swayed and spread her little arms, but before she could fall or jump off, Zbyszko sprang like a wildcat and caught her in his arms.
The duchess, who at first had cried out in fear, immediately laughed cheerfully and began to call:
“Here is Danusia’s knight! Come now, little knight, and give us back our dear singer!”
“He caught her smartly!” voices called out among the courtiers.
Zbyszko walked toward the duchess, holding Danusia against his chest. She had her arm around his neck, and with the other hand she raised her lute up high for fear it would get crushed. Her face was laughing and delighted, though a little frightened.
Meanwhile, the young man, having reached the duchess, set Danusia down before her, then knelt, raised his head, and said with striking boldness for his age:
“Let it be as you say, gracious lady! It is time for this sweet young lady to have her knight, and time for me to have my lady, whose beauty and virtue I will proclaim. Therefore, with your permission, I wish to make a vow to this very one and remain faithful to her in every adventure until death.”
Surprise flickered across the duchess’s face, but not because of Zbyszko’s words, only because it all happened so suddenly. The custom of knightly vows was not Polish, but Masovia, lying on the German border and often seeing knights from even distant lands, knew it better than other provinces and imitated it quite often. The duchess had also heard of it before, at the court of her great father, where all Western customs were considered law and a model for the noblest warriors; for these reasons, she found nothing in Zbyszko’s desire that could offend her or Danusia. On the contrary, she was glad that her dear little courtier was beginning to draw knights’ hearts and eyes toward herself.
So, with an amused face, she turned to the girl:
“Danushka, Danushka! Do you want to have your knight?”
And the fair-haired Danusia jumped up three times in her red slippers, then, grabbing the duchess around the neck, began to shout with such joy as if she had been promised some amusement that only older children were allowed to enjoy:
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Tears of laughter came to the duchess’s eyes, and the whole court laughed with her; finally, however, the lady freed herself from Danusia’s hands and said to Zbyszko:
“Ah! Vow! Vow! And what will you swear to her?”
But Zbyszko, who had maintained unwavering seriousness amid the laughter, spoke just as gravely, without rising from his knees:
“I vow to her that, having arrived in Krakow, I will hang a shield at the inn, and on it a letter, which a learned clerk will write for me formally, stating that Lady Danuta Jurandówna is the most beautiful and virtuous among all maidens in all kingdoms. And whoever disputes this, I will fight with him until either I die or he dies, unless he prefers to go into captivity.”
“Good! You clearly know knightly custom. And what more?”
“And then, having learned from Lord Mikołaj z Długolasu that Lady Jurandówna’s mother lost her last breath because of a German with a peacock crest on his helmet, I vow to gird myself with a hempen rope on my bare sides, and even if it cuts to the bone, I will not take it off until I have defeated three such tufts from German helmets, first having beaten the knights, and placed them at the feet of my lady.”
At this, the duchess grew serious and asked:
“Are you not vowing in jest?”