But Czech, a shrewd and experienced servant, looked at the relic peddler with suspicion and said:
"Did the wolves eat the horse?"
"They ate him, but they burst. I saw one burst with my own eyes. If you have wine, give me some, because even though the wind has died down, I'm frozen through from sitting by the road."
Czech wouldn't give him any wine, though, and they rode on in silence until the relic peddler himself started asking questions.
"Where are you headed?"
"Far. But for now, to Sieradz. Will you ride with us?"
"I have to. I'll sleep in the stable, and tomorrow maybe that pious knight will give me a horse—then I'll move on."
"Where are you from?"
"From near the Prussian lords, from near Malbork."
Hearing that, Zbyszko turned his head and gestured for the stranger to come closer.
"From near Malbork?" he said. "You're coming from there?"
"From near Malbork."
"But you're not a German, are you, since you speak our tongue so well? What's your name?"
"I am a German, and they call me Sanderus. I speak your language because I was born in Torun, where everyone speaks it. Later I lived in Malbork, and it's the same there. Why, even the monastic brothers understand your tongue."
"And have you been away from Malbork long?"
"I was, sir, in the Holy Land, then later in Constantinople and Rome, from there I returned through France to Malbork, and from Malbork I traveled to Masovia, carrying holy relics that pious Christians gladly buy for the salvation of their souls."
"Were you in Płock, or in Warsaw?"
"In both. May God grant health to both duchesses! Not for nothing do even the Prussian lords love Princess Alexandra, for she is a holy lady—though Princess Anna Januszowa is no worse."
"Did you see the court in Warsaw?"
"I didn't meet them in Warsaw, but in Ciechanow, where both the prince and princess received me hospitably as a servant of God and gave me generous gifts for the road. But I also left them relics that must draw God's blessing upon them."
Zbyszko wanted to ask about Danusia, but suddenly a kind of shyness and shame came over him. He realized it would be like confessing his love to a stranger, and the man looked suspicious—probably a common swindler. So after a moment of silence, he asked:
"What kind of relics do you carry around the world?"
"I carry both indulgences and relics. Those indulgences come in different kinds: full indulgences, and for five hundred years, three hundred, two hundred, and less—cheaper ones so even poor folks can buy them and shorten their purgatorial torments. But don't think, sir, that I keep the money for myself... A piece of black bread and a sip of water—that's all for me—and the rest I take to Rome, so that in time it will gather for a new crusade. It's true, many swindlers go around the world with everything fake—relics, seals, certificates—and the Holy Father rightly pursues them with letters. But the prior of Sieradz did me wrong and injustice, for my seals are real. Look at the wax yourselves, sir, and you'll say the same."
"And what about the prior of Sieradz?"
"Oh, sir! If only I didn't think he was infected with Wycliffe's heretical teaching! But if, as your squire told me, you are going to Sieradz, I'd rather not show myself to him, so as not to lead him into sin and blasphemy against holy things."
"So, in short, he took you for a fraud and a cutpurse?"
"If only it were me, sir! I would forgive him for love of my neighbor, as I already have. But he blasphemed my holy wares, and I greatly fear he will be damned without remedy."
"What holy wares do you have?"
"Such that it's not even proper to speak of them with a covered head. But this time, since I have ready indulgences, I give you, sir, permission not to take off your hood, because the wind is blowing again. You'll pay for it at the next stop, and the sin won't be counted against you. What don't I have! I have the hoof of the donkey on which the flight to Egypt took place, found near the pyramids. The King of Aragon offered me fifty good gold ducats for it. I have a feather from the wings of the Archangel Gabriel, which he dropped during the Annunciation. I have two quail heads sent to the Israelites in the wilderness. I have oil in which the pagans tried to fry Saint John. And a rung from Jacob's ladder. And the tears of Mary of Egypt. And some rust from Saint Peter's keys... But I can't name everything, first because I'm frozen, and your squire, sir, wouldn't give me wine, and second because I wouldn't finish until evening."
"Those are great relics, if they're genuine," said Zbyszko.
"If they're genuine? Take a lance from your servant's hand and hold it out, sir, because evil is near that puts such thoughts in your head. Hold it out at lance-length! And if you don't want to bring misfortune on yourself, buy your penance from me for this sin—otherwise, within three weeks someone you love most in the world will die."
Zbyszko was frightened by the threat, because Danusia came to his mind, and he replied:
"It's not I who didn't believe, but the Dominican prior in Sieradz."
"You'll see the wax on the seals yourself, sir. As for the prior, God only knows if he's still alive, for God's justice is swift."
But when they reached Sieradz, it turned out the prior was alive. Zbyszko even went to him to pay for two masses, one for Macko's intention and the other for those peacock crests he was after. The prior, like many in Poland at that time, was a foreigner from Celje, but after forty years in Sieradz he had learned Polish well and was a great enemy of the Teutonic Knights. So when he heard about Zbyszko's undertaking, he said:
"God's punishment will strike them even harder. But I won't dissuade you from what you planned, first because you swore an oath, and second because for what they did here in Sieradz, no Polish hand can ever press them hard enough."
"What did they do?" asked Zbyszko, eager to hear of all the Teutonic Knights' misdeeds.
The old prior spread his hands and first began reciting the "Eternal Rest" aloud, then sat down on a stool, kept his eyes closed for a while as if gathering old memories, and finally began to speak:
"Vincent of Szamotuły brought them here. I was twelve years old then, and had just arrived here from Celje, taken by my uncle Petzoldt, the custodian. The Teutonic Knights attacked the city at night and set it on fire. From the walls we saw them in the marketplace cutting down men, children, and women with their swords, or throwing infants into the flames..."
"I saw priests killed too, for in their fury they spared no one. And it happened that Prior Mikołaj, who was from Elbląg by birth, knew Commander Herman, who led the army. So he went out with the senior brothers to that fierce knight, knelt before him, and begged him in German to have mercy on Christian blood. The knight replied, 'I don't understand,' and ordered the slaughter to continue. That's when they cut down the monks, including my uncle Petzoldt, and tied Mikołaj to a horse's tail... By morning not a single living soul remained in the city, except for the Teutonic Knights and me, who had hidden on a bell beam. God already punished them for that at Płowce, but they still constantly conspire to destroy this Christian kingdom, and they will keep at it until God's arm completely crushes them."
"At Płowce," Zbyszko replied, "almost all the men of my clan perished. But I don't regret it, since God granted King Lokietek such a great victory and exterminated twenty thousand Germans."
"You will live to see an even greater war and greater victories," said the prior.
"Amen!" answered Zbyszko.
And they began speaking of other things. The young knight asked a little about the relic peddler he had met on the road, and learned that many such imposters roamed the highways, fooling the gullible. The prior also told him that there were papal bulls ordering bishops to pursue such peddlers, and that anyone without genuine letters and seals should be tried immediately. Since the wanderer's certificates seemed suspect to the prior, he had wanted to hand him over to the bishop's jurisdiction. If he turned out to be a genuine emissary, no harm would come to him. But he chose to run away. Perhaps he feared the delay of travel—but his flight only made him more suspicious.
At the end of the visit, the prior invited Zbyszko to rest and spend the night at the monastery, but he couldn't agree, because he wanted to post a challenge outside the inn, calling for "combat on foot or horseback" with any knight who would deny that Lady Danuta Jurandówna was the most beautiful and virtuous maiden in the kingdom—and it was unseemly to post such a challenge on the monastery gate. Neither the prior nor the other priests would even write the challenge for him, so the young knight found himself in great trouble, completely at a loss. Only after returning to the inn did it occur to him to ask the relic peddler for help.
"The prior doesn't know if you're a rogue or not," he said. "He says: why would he fear a bishop's court if he had proper certificates?"
"I don't fear the bishop either," replied Sanderus, "only the monks, who don't know seals. I was planning to go to Krakow, but since I have no horse, I must wait until someone gives me one. Meanwhile, I'll send a letter with my own seal attached."
"I thought that if you can write, it would prove you're no simpleton. But how will you send the letter?"
"By some pilgrim or wandering monk. Aren't there plenty of people traveling to Krakow to the queen's tomb?"
"And can you write a challenge for me?"
"I'll write everything you command, sir—smoothly and to the point, even on a board."
"Better on a board," said Zbyszko, pleased. "That way it won't tear, and you can use it later."
Soon the servants found and brought a fresh board, and Sanderus set to writing. Zbyszko couldn't read what he wrote, but he ordered the challenge nailed to the gate, and beneath it a shield, which his Turkish servants guarded in turns. Whoever struck it with a lance would signal that he accepted the challenge. But in Sieradz, there seemed to be no volunteers for such matters: neither that day nor the next morning did the shield ring even once. At noon, the somewhat dispirited young man set off again.
Before that, though, Sanderus came to Zbyszko and said:
"If you, sir, had hung that shield in the Prussian lords' lands, by now your squire would be tightening the straps on your armor."
"What do you mean? A Teutonic Knight, being a monk, cannot have a lady he loves—it's forbidden."
"I don't know if they're allowed, but I know they have them. It's true that a Teutonic Knight cannot enter single combat without scandal, because he swears he will only fight for the faith alongside others. But besides the monastic knights, there are many secular knights from distant lands who come to help the Prussian lords. They're just looking for someone to pick a fight with—especially the French knights."
"Oh, I saw them at Vilnius, and God willing I'll see them in Malbork too. I need peacock crests from helmets—I swore an oath, understand?"
"Buy from me, sir, two or three drops of Saint George's sweat, which he shed fighting the dragon. No relic better suits a knight. Give me the horse for it that you let me ride."
"You're going, sir, as you said, to the Mazovian court of Prince Janusz. Ask there how many relics they took from me—the duchess herself, and the knights, and the maidens at the weddings I attended."
"Which weddings?" asked Zbyszko.
"As usual before Advent. The knights were marrying one after another, because people say there will be war between the Polish king and the Prussian lords over Dobrzyń Land... So each one thinks, 'God knows if I'll be alive,' and wants to enjoy happiness first."
The news of war greatly interested Zbyszko, but what Sanderus said about the marriages interested him even more, so he asked:
"Which maidens were married off?"
"The duchess's ladies-in-waiting. I don't know if any remain, for I heard the duchess say she would have to find new serving women."
Hearing that, Zbyszko fell silent for a moment, then asked in a somewhat changed voice:
"And Lady Danuta Jurandówna, whose name is on the board—did she marry too?"
Sanderus hesitated before answering, first because he didn't know for sure, and second because he thought that by keeping the knight in suspense, he would gain an advantage and be able to exploit him better. He had already reasoned that he should stick with this knight, who had a fine retinue and was well supplied. Sanderus knew people and things. Zbyszko's great youth suggested he would be a generous, careless master who threw money around easily. He had also seen that costly Milanese armor and the huge war stallions that just anyone couldn't own—so he told himself that with such a young lord he would have hospitality at courts, many opportunities to sell relics profitably, safety on the road, and finally plenty of food and drink, which mattered most to him.