All this convinced the young knight to let him ride along to Ciechanow. Sanderus was glad, not only for the victuals but because he noticed that in worthy company he inspired more trust and found customers for his wares more easily. After one more night’s lodging in Nasielsk, traveling neither too fast nor too slow, they saw the walls of Ciechanow Castle the following evening. Zbyszko stopped at an inn to put on his armor and ride into the castle in knightly fashion, helmet on head and lance in hand. Then he mounted his enormous captured stallion, made the sign of the cross in the air, and rode forward.
But he hadn’t gone ten paces when the Czech, riding behind, drew alongside and said, “Your grace, some knights are coming up behind us—Krzyżaks, maybe, or what?”
Zbyszko turned his horse and saw, no more than half a stade back, an imposing retinue. At its head rode two knights on sturdy Pomeranian horses, both in full armor, each in a white cloak with a black cross and a helmet topped with a high peacock crest.
“Krzyżaks, by the dear Lord!” said Zbyszko.
Involuntarily he leaned forward in the saddle and leveled his lance to the horse’s ear. Seeing this, the Czech spat into his palms so the axe haft wouldn’t slip.
Zbyszko’s servants, experienced men who knew the ways of war, also stood ready—not to fight, for in knightly encounters the attendants took no part, but to measure the ground for a mounted combat or trample the snow for a foot fight. Only the Czech, being a nobleman, prepared for action, though he expected Zbyszko to speak before striking. In his heart he was even quite surprised that the young lord had leveled his lance before issuing a challenge.
But Zbyszko came to his senses in time. He recalled his rash deed near Krakow, when he’d imprudently tried to strike Kuno Lichtenstein, and all the misfortunes that resulted. So he raised his lance, handed it to the Czech, and without drawing his sword, rode his horse toward the monastic knights. As he drew near, he noticed that besides them there was a third knight, also with plumes on his head, and a fourth, unarmored, with long hair, who seemed to him a Mazur.
Seeing them, he said to himself, “I vowed to my lady in prison not three crests, but as many as fingers on my hands—but three, as long as they’re not envoys, could be done right away.”
Still, he thought these must be some envoys to the Prince of Masovia, so he sighed and said aloud, “Praised be Jesus Christ!”
“Forever and ever,” replied the long-haired, unarmored rider.
“God bless you!”
“And you, sir!”
“Glory to Saint George!”
“He’s our patron! Welcome, sir, on your journey.”
They began bowing to each other. Then Zbyszko stated who he was, his coat of arms, his war cry, and that he was traveling to the Mazovian court. The long-haired knight announced that his name was Jędrek z Kropiwnicy and that he was leading guests to the prince: Brother Godfrey, Brother Rotgier, and Sir Fulko de Lorche of Lorraine, who, while staying with the Krzyżaks, wanted to see the Prince of Masovia and especially the duchess, daughter of the famous Kestutis, with his own eyes.
During this exchange of names, the foreign knights, sitting straight on their horses, bowed their iron-helmeted heads repeatedly. Judging from the splendor of Zbyszko’s armor, they thought the prince had sent someone important—perhaps a relative or son—to meet them.
Jędrek z Kropiwnicy continued, “The komtur—as you’d say in our tongue, the warden from Jansbork—is visiting the prince. He told him about these three knights, how they were eager to come but didn’t dare, especially that knight from Lorraine. Being from far away, he thought that just beyond the Krzyżak border lived Saracens with whom war never ceased. The prince, being a humane lord, sent me straight to the border to lead them safely through the castles.”
“So without your help they couldn’t have traveled?”
“Our people are fiercely set against the Krzyżaks, not so much for their raids—for we raid them too—as for their treachery. If a Krzyżak embraces you and kisses you on the mouth from the front, he’s ready to stab you in the back with a knife at the same time. That custom is utterly deceitful and contrary to us Mazurs. Bah! Under a roof, everyone will take in a German and do him no harm, but on the road they’re glad to bar his way. And there are those who do nothing else, for vengeance or for the glory that God gives to each.”
“Which among you is the most famous?”
“There’s one it’s better for a German to see death than him: he’s called Jurand of Spychów.”
The young knight’s heart leaped when he heard that name, and he immediately decided to draw out Jędrek z Kropiwnicy.
“I know!” he said. “I’ve heard of him—the one whose daughter Danuta was a lady-in-waiting to the duchess until she was married.”
Having said this, he began to stare intently into the Mazovian knight’s eyes, almost holding his breath. The other replied with great surprise, “Who told you that? She’s a young girl. True, even such ones do get married, but Jurandówna hasn’t married. It’s only six days since I left Ciechanow, and I saw her with the duchess. How could she marry during Advent?”
Hearing this, Zbyszko summoned all his willpower not to grab the Mazur by the neck and shout, “May God reward you for this news!” But he restrained himself and said, “Because I heard that Jurand had given her to someone.”
“The duchess wanted to give her away, not Jurand, but she couldn’t against Jurand’s will. She wanted to give her to a certain knight in Krakow—the one the girl made a vow to and whom she loves.”
“She loves him?” cried Zbyszko.
At that, Jędrek looked at him sharply, smiled, and said, “You know, you’re asking about that girl terribly.”
“I’m asking about acquaintances I’m going to visit.”
Little of Zbyszko’s face was visible from under his helmet—only his eyes, nose, and a bit of his cheeks. But those cheeks and nose were so red that the Mazur, prone to mockery, said, “Your face must have turned as red as an Easter egg from the frost!”
The young man grew even more flustered and replied, “Probably…”
They rode on in silence for a while, only the horses snorting, sending pillars of steam from their nostrils. The foreign knights began chattering among themselves. But after a moment, Jędrek z Kropiwnicy asked, “What’s your name? I didn’t hear well.”
“Zbyszko of Bogdaniec.”
“My goodness! That’s what the one who vowed to Jurandówna was called, wasn’t it?”
“Do you think I’ll deny it?” replied Zbyszko quickly and proudly.
“And you’ve no reason to. Dear God, so you’re that Zbyszko whom the girl covered with her headscarf! After your return from Krakow, all the ladies-in-waiting talked of nothing but you. Many even wept when they heard of it. So it’s you! Hey, there’ll be joy at court… and the duchess likes you too.”
“God bless her, and you as well for this good news… Because when they told me she had married, I went numb.”
“Why would she have married? She’s a tempting prize, that girl—all of Spychow comes with her—but though there are many handsome fellows at court, none so much as glanced at her, because everyone respected both her deed and your vow. The duchess wouldn’t have allowed it either. Hey, there’ll be joy! To be honest, they sometimes teased the girl. Someone would say, ‘Your knight won’t come back,’ and she’d just stamp her feet: ‘He will! He will!’ Though sometimes when someone said you’d taken another, she’d even cry.”
These words touched Zbyszko deeply, but at the same time anger seized him at people’s gossip. So he said, “Whoever spread such talk about me, I’ll challenge him!”
Jędrek z Kropiwnicy began to laugh. “The women said it to spite you. Are you going to challenge women? You can’t fight a sword against a distaff!”
Zbyszko, glad that God had sent him such a cheerful and friendly companion, started asking him about Danusia, then about the customs of the Mazovian court, and again about Danusia, then about Prince Janusz, about the duchess, and again about Danusia. Finally, mentioning his vows, he told Jędrek what he’d heard along the way about the war—how people were preparing for it, how they expected it from day to day—and lastly asked whether the same was thought in the Masovian duchies.
But the lord of Kropiwnica didn’t think the war was so near. People talked, that couldn’t be helped, but he’d heard Prince Janusz himself say to Mikołaj z Długolasu that the Krzyżaks had tucked their horns in, and that as long as the king insisted, they’d even give up the Dobrzyń Land they’d seized, because they feared his power, or at least they’d drag the matter out until they were well prepared.
“Besides,” he said, “the prince recently went to Malbork, where in the Grand Master’s absence the grand marshal hosted him and held tournaments for him. Now komturs come to the prince, and these new guests are still on their way.”
Here he paused for a moment and added, “People say these Krzyżaks aren’t staying with us and with Prince Ziemowit in Płock without reason. They’d probably like it if, in case of war, our princes didn’t support the King of Poland but them. And if they can’t be drawn to that, then at least they’d stay quietly aside—but that won’t happen…”
“God grant it won’t. How could you stay home? Your princes are loyal to the Kingdom of Poland after all. You won’t stay put, I think.”
“We won’t,” replied Jędrek z Kropiwnicy.
Zbyszko looked again at the foreign knights and their peacock crests. “So they’ve come for that too?”
“The monastic brothers, maybe for that too. Who knows?”
“And the third one?”
“The third one comes out of curiosity.”
“He must be someone important.”
“Bah! He has three iron-bound wagons behind him with decent gear, and nine men of his retinue. If only I could close with him! It makes my mouth water.”
“But you can’t?”
“How? The prince ordered me to guard them. Not a hair on their heads will fall until Ciechanow.”
“What if I challenged them? What if they wanted to fight me?”
“Then you’d have to fight me first. As long as I live, it won’t happen.”
Hearing this, Zbyszko looked amiably at the young nobleman and said, “You understand knightly honor. I won’t fight you, because I’m your friend. But in Ciechanow, God willing, I’ll find a cause against the Germans.”
“In Ciechanow, do as you please. There’ll be some jousting, it may even come to real combat, as long as the prince and the komturs give permission.”
“I have a board on which stands a challenge for anyone who won’t admit that Lady Danuta Jurandówna is the most virtuous and beautiful girl in the world. But you know… everywhere people just shrugged and laughed.”
“Because that’s a foreign custom, and frankly a stupid one, unknown among our people except maybe at the borders. This Lorrainer too kept accosting nobles along the road, commanding them to praise some lady of his above others. But no one understood him, and I didn’t allow a fight.”
“What? He commanded them to praise his lady? God forbid! He must have no shame in his eyes.”
He looked at the foreign knight as if to see what a man without shame in his eyes looked like. But in his heart he had to admit that Fulko de Lorche didn’t seem at all like an ordinary troublemaker. On the contrary, from under his raised visor looked gentle eyes, and a young face full of some sadness emerged. Zbyszko also noticed with surprise that the knight’s neck was encircled three times with a horsehair rope that ran down along his armor to his ankle and ended there with a triple twist as well.
“What’s that rope he wears?” asked Zbyszko.
“I couldn’t find out properly, because they don’t understand our language, except Brother Rotgier, who can say a few words, and not very well. Still, I think that young knight made a vow not to take that rope off until he accomplishes some great knightly feat. By day he wears it over his armor, by night on his bare skin.”
“Sanderus!” called Zbyszko suddenly.
“At your service,” replied the German, approaching.
“Ask that knight what is the most virtuous and most beautiful girl in the world.”
“What is the most beautiful and most virtuous girl in the world?” asked Sanderus.
“Ulryka de Elner!” replied Fulko de Lorche.
Raising his eyes upward, he sighed repeatedly. When Zbyszko heard such blasphemy, indignation choked his breath, and such great anger seized him that he reined in his stallion on the spot. But before he could speak, Jędrek z Kropiwnicy interposed his horse between him and the foreigner and said, “You won’t quarrel here.”
But Zbyszko turned again to the relic seller. “Tell him from me that he loves an owl.”
“My master says, noble knight, that you love an owl!” repeated Sanderus like an echo.
At that, Sir de Lorche let go of the reins and with his right hand began to unbuckle and then pull off his iron gauntlet, after which he threw it onto the snow before Zbyszko. Zbyszko motioned to his Czech to pick it up with the tip of his lance.
But Jędrek z Kropiwnicy turned to Zbyszko with a now threatening face and said, “You won’t meet, I tell you, until my guarding duty is over. I won’t allow it—neither him nor you.”
“But it wasn’t I who challenged him; he challenged me.”
“But over an owl. That’s enough. And if anyone opposes… Hey! I too know how to twist a belt!”
“I don’t want to fight you.”
“But you’d have to fight me, because I swore to defend the other.”
“So what will happen?” asked stubborn Zbyszko.
“Ciechanow is near.”
“But what will the German think?”
“Let your man tell him that there can be no meeting here, and that the prince’s permission is needed for you, and the komtur’s for him.”
“Bah! What if they don’t give permission?”
“There’ll be a way. Enough talk.”
Zbyszko, seeing no way out, and understanding that Jędrek z Kropiwnicy truly couldn’t allow a fight, called Sanderus again to explain to the Lorrainer that they would only fight after they arrived. De Lorche, hearing the German’s words, nodded to show he understood. Then he stretched out his hand to Zbyszko, held his palm for a moment, and squeezed it firmly three times—which, according to knightly custom, meant they must fight each other somewhere and sometime. Then, in apparent harmony, they rode toward Ciechanow Castle, whose blunt towers were already visible against the reddened sky.
They entered while it was still light, but by the time they reported at the castle gates and the drawbridge was lowered, deep night had fallen. They were received and hosted by Zbyszko’s acquaintance, Mikołaj z Długolasu, who commanded the garrison—a handful of knights and three hundred unerring Kurpie archers. Right at the entrance, to his great distress, Zbyszko learned that the court was not there. The prince, wanting to honor the komturs from Szczytno and Jansbork, had staged a great hunt in the Kurpie Forest. To add splendor to the spectacle, the duchess had gone along with her ladies-in-waiting. Of the women he knew, Zbyszko found only Ofka, the widow of Krzych of Jarząbkowo, who was the castle’s housekeeper. She was very glad to see him, because ever since his return from Krakow, she had told everyone, willing or not, about his love for Danusia and the adventure with Lichtenstein. These stories had won her great esteem among the younger courtiers and ladies—so she was grateful to Zbyszko. Now she tried to console the young man in his sadness at Danushka’s absence.
“You won’t recognize her,” she said. “The girl is growing. Her clothes are beginning to split at the seams under her chin, because everything about her is swelling. She’s no longer the little sprite she was, and she loves you differently than before. Now if someone just shouts ‘Zbyszko!’ in her ear, it’s like a needle stuck in her. That’s the lot of all us women, and there’s no help for it, for it’s by God’s command… And your uncle, you say, is healthy? Why didn’t he come? …Ah, that’s our lot… It’s dreary, dreary for a woman alone in the world… God’s mercy the girl didn’t break her legs, because every day she climbs the tower and looks at the road. Every one of us needs companionship.”
“I’ll just rest my horses and ride toward her—even if by night,” replied Zbyszko.
“Do that, but take a guide from the castle, or you’ll get lost in the forest.”
And so at supper, which Mikołaj z Długolasu gave for the guests, Zbyszko announced that he would ride after the prince immediately and asked for a guide. The weary monastic brothers drew close after the feast to the huge hearths where entire pine trunks blazed, and decided to ride only the next day after resting. But de Lorche, after inquiring what it was about, declared his wish to ride with Zbyszko, saying that otherwise they might miss the hunt, which he very much wanted to see.
Then he approached Zbyszko, stretched out his hand, and again squeezed his fingers three times.