At Zbyszko’s question, he furrowed his brow, raised his eyes as if straining his memory, and replied:
“Lady Danuta Jurandówna… And where is she from?”
“Danuta Jurandówna, from Spychow.”
“I saw all of them, but I don’t quite recall what each one was called.”
“She’s still a young girl who plays the lute and cheers the duchess with her singing.”
“Ah… a young girl… who plays the lute… young girls have been married off too… Isn’t she as black as jet?”
Zbyszko sighed.
“That’s not her! The other was white as snow, with rosy cheeks—and fair-haired.”
To that Sanderus said:
“Because one, black as jet, stayed with the duchess, while almost all the others were married off.”
“But you said ‘almost all,’ which means not every single one. For the love of God, if you want anything from me, then try to remember.”
“In three or four days I might recall—and a horse would be most welcome, one that could carry my holy wares.”
“You shall have it, so long as you speak the truth.”
Suddenly Czech Hlawa, who had been listening from the beginning, smiling into his fist, spoke up:
“The truth will be known at the Mazovian court.”
Sanderus looked at him for a moment, then said:
“And you think I’m afraid of the Mazovian court?”
“I’m not saying you fear the Mazovian court, only that you won’t ride away on a horse today or in three days, and if it turns out you lied, you won’t leave even on your own feet, because His Grace will have them broken.”
“That’s right!” said Zbyszko.
Sanderus thought that with such a threat, it was better to be cautious, and replied:
“If I had wanted to lie, I would have said outright that she was married or that she wasn’t, but I said, ‘I don’t remember.’ If you had any sense, you would have recognized my honesty from that reply.”
“My wit is no kin to your virtue, for your virtue may be sister to a dog.”
“My virtue doesn’t bark like your wit; and he who barks in life may well howl after death.”
“Exactly! Your virtue won’t howl after death, it will gnash its teeth—unless it loses them in life serving the devil.”
And they began to quarrel, for Czech Hlawa had a sharp tongue and answered every word the German said with two. But meanwhile Zbyszko gave the order to set out, and soon they were on their way, having first asked well-traveled people for directions to Łęczyca. Soon after leaving Sieradz, they entered the dense forests that covered much of the land. But a road ran through them, in some places even with drainage ditches, in low spots paved with round logs—a relic of King Casimir the Great’s efforts. True, after his death, amid the war turmoil stirred up by the Nałęcze and Grzymalici, the roads fell into disrepair. But under Queen Jadwiga, once the kingdom was pacified, shovels again dug in the marshes and axes rang in the forests under the hands of industrious people. By the end of her life, a merchant could drive his loaded wagons between the major towns everywhere without fear of them breaking in the ruts or sinking into the mire. Only wild animals or brigands could be a danger on the roads, but against beasts there were lanterns at night and crossbows for defense by day, and there were fewer bandits and robbers than in neighboring lands. Besides, anyone traveling with an armed retinue had nothing to fear.
Zbyszko also did not fear bandits or armed knights, nor did he even think of them, for a terrible unease had gripped him—and his whole being was at the Mazovian court. Would he still find his Danuśka as a lady-in-waiting to the duchess, or already the wife of some Masovian knight? He had no way of knowing, and from dawn to dusk he wrestled with the thought. Sometimes it seemed impossible that she could have forgotten him, but at other moments it occurred to him that perhaps Jurand had come from Spychow to court and given the girl in marriage to some neighbor or friend. After all, he had said in Krakow that Danusia was not meant for Zbyszko and that he could not give her to him—so evidently he had promised her to someone else, bound by an oath, and now he had kept that oath. When Zbyszko thought about it, it seemed certain to him that he would never see Danuśka as a maiden again. Then he would call Sanderus and question him again, but the man only muddled things further. More than once, he was just on the point of recalling Jurandówna’s wedding, but then he would suddenly put his finger to his lips, think, and say: “Probably not her!” Nor did the German’s memory improve with wine, which was supposed to clear his mind—and he kept the young knight suspended between deadly fear and hope.
And so Zbyszko rode on, full of worry, sadness, and uncertainty. Along the way, he no longer thought of Bogdaniec or Zgorzelice at all, only of what he ought to do. First of all, he needed to go to the Mazovian court to find out the truth, so he traveled hastily, stopping only for short nights at manor houses, inns, and towns so as not to wear out his horses. In Łęczyca, he again had a challenge board hung before the gate, reasoning to himself that whether Danuśka was still unmarried or already wed, she remained the lady of his heart and he should do battle for her. But in Łęczyca, not many could read the challenge, and the knights who had it read to them by learned clerics just shrugged, unfamiliar with the foreign custom, and said: “Some fool is passing through—how can anyone affirm or deny when he’s never seen the girl?” And Zbyszko continued on, his distress and haste growing by the day. He had never ceased to love his Danuśka, but in Bogdaniec and Zgorzelice, when he conferred almost daily with Jagienka and gazed upon her beauty, he did not think of the other so often. Now, however, the girl never left his sight, his memory, or his thoughts, day or night. In dreams, he even saw her before him, fair-haired, with a lute in her hand, wearing red slippers and a small wreath on her head. She would reach out her hands to him, but Jurand would pull her away. In the morning, when the dreams vanished, a longing greater than before instantly took their place—and Zbyszko had never loved this girl as much in Bogdaniec as he did now, when he was uncertain whether she had been taken from him.
It also occurred to him that they had probably married her off against her will, so he did not blame her in his heart, especially since she was still a child and could not have a will of her own. Instead, he seethed inwardly against Jurand and against Princess Januszowa, and when he thought of Danusia’s husband, his heart would rise to his throat and he would glance threateningly at the servants carrying the armor under the canvas covers. He also told himself that he would never stop serving her, and that even if he found her another man’s wife, he would still lay the peacock crests at her feet. But there was more sorrow than solace in that thought, for he had no idea what he would do afterward.
Only the idea of the great war brought him comfort. Though he had no desire to live without Danuśka, he did not expect to die in battle. Rather, he felt that during the war his soul and memory would somehow become lost, and he would be free of all other anxieties and troubles. And the great war seemed to hang in the air. No one knew where the rumors came from, for there was peace between the king and the Order—yet everywhere Zbyszko lodged, people talked of nothing else. They seemed to have a premonition that it was inevitable, and some said openly: “Why did we unite with Lithuania if not against those Teutonic wolves? We must finish them off once and for all, so they stop tearing at our insides.” Others, however, said: “Mad monks! Płowce wasn’t enough for them! Death is upon them, yet they’ve still taken Dobrzyń Land, which they’ll have to give back with blood…” And throughout the kingdom’s lands, people prepared solemnly, without boasting, as for a fight to the death, but with the grim determination of a mighty people who had suffered injustice too long and were now ready to exact a terrible reckoning.
At every manor, Zbyszko encountered people convinced that any day now they would have to take to horse, and he was surprised, for while he too believed war was coming, he had not heard it would happen so quickly. It did not occur to him, however, that people’s wishes were running ahead of events. He trusted others rather than himself, and his heart rejoiced at the sight of the pre-war activity he saw everywhere. All other worries gave way to care for horses and armor; everywhere people inspected with great attention the horses, swords, axes, halberds, helmets, breastplates, and the straps on the chest pieces and horse trappers. Day and night, smiths hammered iron sheets, forging thick, heavy armor that the refined knights of the West could scarcely lift, but that the sturdy landowners of Greater and Lesser Poland wore with ease. Old men pulled moldy bags of grzywnas from chests in their chambers to outfit their sons for war. Once Zbyszko lodged with a wealthy nobleman, Bartosz of Bielaw, who, having twenty-two sturdy sons, had pawned extensive lands to the monastery in Łowicz in order to buy twenty-two breastplates, as many helmets, and other war gear. Thus Zbyszko, though he had heard nothing of this in Bogdaniec, also believed that they would soon march on Prussia, and he thanked God that he was so excellently equipped for the campaign.
Indeed, his armor aroused universal admiration. People took him for a voivode’s son, and when he told them he was just an ordinary knight and that such armor could be bought from the Germans, provided one paid well with an axe, their hearts filled with warlike enthusiasm. But more than one man, upon seeing this armor, could not contain his greed and would ride up to Zbyszko on the highway and say: “How about a bout for it?” But Zbyszko, pressed for time, refused to joust, and Czech Hlawa would draw his crossbow. Zbyszko even stopped hanging the challenge board at inns, for he realized that the further he traveled from the borders into the interior, the less people understood the custom and the more they considered him a fool.
In Masovia, people spoke less of war. Here, too, they believed it would come, but they did not know when. In Warsaw, all was quiet, especially since the court was staying in Ciechanow, which Prince Janusz was rebuilding after the earlier Lithuanian attack—or rather, constructing entirely anew, for only the castle had survived. At the Warsaw castle, Zbyszko was received by Jaśko Socha, the castellan, son of Voivode Abraham, who had fallen at Worskla. Jaśko knew Zbyszko from having been with the duchess in Krakow, so he welcomed him gladly. He sat down with him to eat and drink and immediately began asking about Danusia and whether she had married like the other duchess’s maidens. But Socha could not answer that. The princely couple had been staying at Ciechanow Castle since early autumn. Only a handful of archers and himself stayed in Warsaw for its defense. He had heard that there were various festivities and weddings in Ciechanow, as was customary before Advent, but he, being a married man, had not bothered to ask which of the maids had married and which had not.
“Still, I think,” he said, “that Jurandówna has not married, for that could not have happened without Jurand, and I haven’t heard of his coming. There are also two monastic knights staying with the prince and duchess as guests, komturs—one from Jansbork and the other from Szczytno—and with them, apparently, some foreign visitors. And when they are there, Jurand never comes, for the sight of a white mantle drives him mad. And if Jurand wasn’t there, there was no wedding! If you wish, I will send a courier to inquire, and I’ll order him to hurry back, but I honestly think you will find Jurandówna still unmarried.”
“I’ll go myself tomorrow,” said Zbyszko, “but may God reward you for your comforting words. Let the horses rest a while, and then I’ll go, for I shall have no peace until I know the truth. God reward you, I feel lighter already.”
But Socha did not stop there; he began to ask among the nobles currently staying at the castle and among the soldiers if anyone had heard anything about Jurandówna’s wedding. No one had heard anything, however—though there were some who had been in Ciechanow and even attended some weddings. They said: “Unless someone married her in the last few weeks or even in the last few days.” And indeed it could have happened, for in those days people did not waste time on reflection.
In the meantime, Zbyszko went to bed greatly comforted. Already in bed, he wondered whether he should send Sanderus away the next day, but then reflected that the rascal might prove useful for his knowledge of German when he went after Lichtenstein. He also thought that Sanderus had not lied to him, and although he was a costly acquisition, eating and drinking for four at inns, he was still useful and showed some affection for his new master. Moreover, he knew how to write, which made him superior to the squire Czech Hlawa and even to Zbyszko himself.