IV

IV.

Under the direction of the chief huntsman, the foresters spread the hunters in a long line along the edge of the clearing. They themselves stayed hidden, leaving an open space in front for clear shots from crossbows and bows. The two shorter sides of the clearing were lined with nets, behind which lurked the foresters called the Returners. Their job was to drive the game back toward the archers, or if an animal refused to be frightened and became tangled in the nets, to finish it off with spears. Countless bands of Kurpie, skillfully arranged in what was called the ring, were to drive every living creature from the depths of the forest into the clearing. Behind the hunters, another net was stretched to catch any animal that managed to break through their line, where it would be killed in the folds.

The prince took his place in the middle of the line, in a slight depression that ran the full width of the clearing. The chief huntsman, Mrokota z Mocarzewa, had chosen this spot for him, knowing that the largest game from the forest would likely come through that very hollow. The prince himself held a crossbow; a heavy spear leaned against a tree at his side. A little behind him stood two defenders, huge men like forest trunks, with axes on their shoulders and additional cocked crossbows ready to hand to the prince if needed. The duchess and Jurandówna remained on horseback, for the prince never allowed them to dismount because of the danger from aurochs and bisons. On foot, it was harder to escape their fury than on horseback. Sir de Lorche, though invited by the prince to take a place on his right, begged to stay on horseback to defend the ladies. He stood a little away from the duchess, looking like a long nail, with his knightly lance, which the Masurians quietly mocked under their breath as a weapon useless for hunting. Zbyszko, however, had driven his spear into the snow and slung his crossbow over his back. Standing by Danusia's horse, he lifted his head and smiled at her. He only quieted down when Mrokota z Mocarzewa, who in the forest dared to grumble even at the prince himself, ordered him sternly to be silent.

Far, far off in the depths of the forest, Kurpie horns sounded. From the clearing, the shrill call of a krzywuła answered briefly, and then complete silence fell. Only occasionally a jay screeched in the treetops, or the men in the ring cawed like crows. The hunters strained their eyes across the white, empty expanse, where the wind stirred the frost-covered rushes and leafless willow bushes. Each waited impatiently to see what animal would first appear on the snow. They predicted a rich and splendid hunt, for the forest teemed with bisons, aurochs, and wild boars. The Kurpie had also smoked several bears out of their dens, and these creatures, rudely awakened, prowled the thickets angry, hungry, and alert, sensing that soon they would have to fight not for a peaceful winter sleep, but for their lives.

Still, they had to wait a long time. The men driving the animals toward the clamps of the beaters' line and the clearing had covered an enormous stretch of forest and were coming from so far away that the hunters could not even hear the barking of the dogs, which had been unleashed right after the horns sounded. One dog, let loose too early or else wandering loose behind the men, appeared in the clearing, ran across it with its nose to the ground, and passed between the hunters. Again it became empty and quiet, except that the Returners kept cawing like crows, signaling that the work would soon begin. After the time of several prayers, wolves appeared at the edge—they were the most alert and the first to try to escape the ring. There were several of them. But when they burst into the clearing and scented people all around, they dove back into the forest, evidently seeking another exit. Then wild boars emerged from the thicket and began to run in a long black chain across the snowy space, looking from a distance like a herd of domestic pigs hurrying toward a farmwife's call, shaking their ears as they headed for the hut. But the chain stopped, listened, sniffed, turned back, and listened again. It swerved toward the nets and, sensing the Returners, ran back toward the hunters, snorting. It came closer, more cautiously but steadily, until at last the clash of iron crossbow triggers and the whir of bolts rang out, and the first blood stained the white snowy ground.

Then a terrible squeal tore through the air, and the herd scattered as if struck by lightning. Some charged blindly forward, others rushed toward the nets, and still others began to run singly or in small groups, mingling with other animals that by now filled the clearing. The sounds of horns, dogs barking, and the distant clamor of men coming in the main wave from deep in the forest grew distinct. The forest dwellers, driven from the sides by the widely spread wings of the ring, packed the forest meadow more and more densely. Nothing like this could be seen not only in foreign lands, but even in other Polish provinces, which no longer had such wildernesses as Masovia. The Teutonic Knights, though they had been in Lithuania where bisons sometimes charged into armies and caused chaos, marveled at this immense multitude of game. Sir de Lorche marveled most of all. Standing by the duchess and her ladies like a crane on guard, unable to speak to any of them, he had begun to grow bored, freeze in his iron armor, and think the hunt had failed. But then he saw before him whole herds of light-footed roe deer, tawny stags, and heavy-headed, antlered elk, all mixed together, careering across the clearing, blinded by fear and vainly seeking an exit. The duchess, in whom the blood of Kestutis, her father, stirred at the sight, loosed bolt after bolt into the motley crowd, shouting with joy each time a struck stag or elk reared up in its flight and then fell heavily, kicking the snow. The other ladies also often bent to their crossbows, for the hunting fever had seized them all. Only Zbyszko was not thinking of the hunt. He rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, gazing into Danusia's eyes, while she, half laughing, half embarrassed, tried to close her eyelids as if she could not bear his look.

But Sir de Lorche's attention was caught by a huge bear, gray on its neck and shoulders, which unexpectedly emerged from the reeds near the hunters. The prince shot at it with his crossbow, then charged it with his spear. When the beast rose on its hind legs, roaring terribly, the prince stabbed it before the entire court so skillfully and swiftly that neither of the two defenders needed to use his axe. The young Lorrainer thought that few lords at whose courts he had traveled on his way would have dared such sport, and that with such princes and such a people, the Order might one day have a hard struggle and face hard hours.

Then he saw other savage, white-tusked boars stabbed in the same manner by other hunters—huge creatures, far larger and fiercer than those hunted in the forests of Lower Lorraine and the German wildernesses. Sir de Lorche had never seen such skilled and confident hunters, nor such thrusts of the spear, anywhere. As a seasoned traveler, he explained this to himself by saying that all these people, dwelling in immense forests, grew accustomed from childhood to the crossbow and spear, and so achieved greater proficiency in their use than others.

At last the clearing was thickly strewn with the carcasses of all kinds of animals, but the hunt was far from over. On the contrary, the most interesting and most dangerous moment was yet to come, for the ring had just driven a dozen or so bisons and aurochs onto the clearing. Though in the forests they usually kept apart, now they came mixed together, but by no means blinded with fear—rather, they were threatening than frightened. They did not move very fast, as if confident in their terrible strength that they would break every barrier and get through. Yet the ground began to thunder under their weight. The bearded bulls at the head of the herd, with their heads low to the ground, stopped now and then as if considering which way to attack. From their monstrous lungs came a muffled roar like subterranean thunder; steam smoked from their nostrils; and pawing the snow with their forelegs, they seemed to search from under their manes with bloodshot eyes for the hidden enemy.

Meanwhile the Returners raised a great cry, answered by hundreds of ringing voices from the main wave and the wings of the ring. Horns and pipes blared. The forest trembled to its farthest depths, and at the same time the Kurpie dogs, pursuing the trail, burst into the clearing with a terrible uproar. At the sight of them, the females with young instantly became enraged. The herd, which had been moving slowly, scattered in a mad chase across the whole clearing. One aurochs—a tawny, gigantic, almost monstrous bull, larger than the bisons—charged in heavy leaps toward the line of hunters, turned toward the right side of the clearing, and then, seeing horses several dozen paces away among the trees, stopped. Bellowing, it began to plow the earth with its horns, as if working itself up for a leap and a fight.

At this terrible sight, the Returners raised an even louder cry, and from among the hunters came piercing shouts: "The duchess! The duchess! Save the lady!" Zbyszko snatched the spear stuck in the snow and leaped to the edge of the forest. Several Lithuanians sprang after him, ready to die defending the daughter of Kestutis. Then the crossbow in the duchess's hands twanged, the bolt whistled, flew over the animal's lowered head, and lodged in its neck.

"He's hit!" cried the duchess. "He won't get far."

But her further words were drowned by a roar so terrible that the horses crouched on their haunches. The aurochs rushed like a storm straight at the duchess, but suddenly, with no less speed, the valiant Sir de Lorche burst from among the trees. Bent low over his horse, with his lance extended as in a knightly tournament, he charged straight at the beast.

For an instant, the onlookers saw the lance strike the bull's neck, bend like a bow, and shatter into tiny splinters. Then the enormous horned head vanished completely under Sir de Lorche's horse's belly, and before anyone could cry out, both horse and rider flew into the air as if from a sling.

The horse fell on its side and began to kick in its death throes, tangling its legs in its own spilled entrails. Sir de Lorche lay nearby motionless, like an iron wedge on the snow. The aurochs seemed for a moment to hesitate whether to leave them and charge the other horses, but with the first victims right before it, it turned back to them and began to savage the unfortunate horse, crushing it with its head and furiously plowing its open belly with its horns.

Men poured from the forest to rescue the foreign knight. Zbyszko, concerned for the protection of the duchess and Danusia, reached the spot first and drove his spear point under the animal's shoulder blade. But he struck with such force that when the aurochs suddenly turned, the spear broke in his hand, and he himself fell face down in the snow. "He's dead! He's dead!" cried the Masurians rushing to help. Meanwhile the bull's head covered Zbyszko and pressed him to the ground. The two powerful defenders were already running from the prince's side, but they would have arrived too late had not Czech Hlawa, sent to Zbyszko by Jagienka, reached them first. He raised a broad axe with both hands and struck the aurochs' bowed neck just behind the horns.

The blow was so terrible that the beast fell as if struck by lightning, its vertebrae severed and its head nearly half cut off. But as it fell, it crushed Zbyszko. In an instant, the two defenders dragged the monstrous carcass away, while the duchess and Danusia, having leapt from their horses, ran to the wounded young man, speechless with terror.

Pale, covered with the aurochs' blood and his own, he raised himself slightly, tried to stand, but staggered and fell to his knees. Leaning on his hand, he managed to utter a single word:

"Danushka..."

Then he spat blood, and darkness closed over his head. Danusia caught him by the shoulders from behind, but unable to hold him, she began to cry for help. They surrounded him from all sides, rubbing him with snow, pouring wine into his mouth. Finally the huntsman Mrokota z Mocarzewa ordered him laid on a cloak, and they stanched the blood with soft forest fungi.

"He'll live if only his ribs are broken, not his spine," he said, turning to the duchess.

The other ladies-in-waiting, with the help of the hunters, began to tend to Sir de Lorche. They turned him this way and that, looking for holes or dents in his armor made by the bull's horns, but aside from traces of snow that had wedged between the plate joints, they found nothing. The aurochs had mainly taken revenge on the horse, which lay dead nearby, its entrails spilled under its belly; Sir de Lorche himself had not been struck. He had only fainted from the fall, and as it later turned out, his right arm had been dislocated. Now, when they removed his helmet and poured wine into his mouth, he opened his eyes at once, regained consciousness, and seeing the anxious faces of two ladies-in-waiting bent over him, said in German:

"Surely I am already in paradise, and angels are above me?"

The ladies did not understand what he said, but glad that he had revived and spoken, they began to smile at him. With the help of the hunters, they raised him from the ground. He groaned, feeling pain in his right arm, supported himself with his left on a hunter's shoulder, and stood motionless for a moment, afraid to take a step because he felt unsteady on his feet. Then he cast a still sorrowful gaze over the battleground. He saw the tawny carcass of the aurochs, which up close seemed monstrously huge; he saw Danusia wringing her hands over Zbyszko, and Zbyszko himself on the cloak.

"Did that knight come to my aid?" he asked. "Is he alive?"

"He is badly hurt," replied one of the courtiers who knew German.

"From now on I will fight not with him, but for him," said the Lorrainer.

At that moment the prince, who had previously been standing over Zbyszko, approached him and began to praise him: through his bold deed he had protected the duchess and the other women from grave danger, and perhaps saved their lives. For that, besides knightly rewards, he would be covered with glory among the living and among posterity. "In these effeminate times," he said, "fewer and fewer true knights travel the world, so be our guest as long as possible, or even stay in Masovia forever. You have already earned my favor, and you will earn the love of the people with your easy kindness."

Sir de Lorche's heart, hungry for fame, swelled at such words. When he thought that he had performed such a momentous knightly deed and earned such praise in these distant Polish lands, about which so many strange things were told in the West, he almost felt no pain in his dislocated shoulder from joy. He understood that a knight who could tell at the court of Brabant or Burgundy that he had saved the life of the Duchess of Masovia while hunting would walk in glory as in sunlight. Under the influence of these thoughts, he wanted to go at once to the duchess and swear faithful service on his knees, but both she and Danusia were occupied with Zbyszko. He regained consciousness for a moment, but only smiled at Danusia, raised his hand to his cold-sweat-covered forehead, and immediately fainted again. The experienced hunters, seeing that his hands had clenched and his mouth remained open, said among themselves that he would not survive. But the more experienced Kurpie, many of whom bore scars from bear claws, boar tusks, or bison horns, gave better hope. They claimed that the aurochs' horn had slipped between the knight's ribs, that perhaps one or two were broken, but his spine was whole, for otherwise the young lord could not have raised himself even for a moment. They also pointed out that where Zbyszko had fallen, there was a kind of snowdrift, and that had saved him. The beast, pinning him with its horn span, had not managed to crush his chest or spine completely.

Unfortunately, the prince's physician, Father Wyszoniek of Dziewanna, was not at the hunt, though he usually attended, because this time he was busy baking wafers at the manor. Upon hearing this, Czech ran for him. In the meantime, the Kurpie carried Zbyszko on his cloak to the prince's manor. Danusia wanted to walk beside him, but the duchess objected, for the road was long and deep snow already lay in the forest ravines, and haste was important. The Krzyżak, Hugo de Danveld, helped the girl mount her horse. Then, riding close beside her just behind the men carrying Zbyszko, he said in Polish in a low voice so that only she could hear:

"I have a miraculous healing balm at Szczytno, which I got from a certain hermit in the Hercynian forest. I could have it brought here in three days."

"May God reward you," answered Danusia.

"God records every merciful deed, but may I expect a reward from you as well?"

"How can I repay you?"

The Krzyżak moved his horse closer. He obviously wanted to say something, but hesitated, and only after a moment spoke:

"In the Order, besides brothers, there are also sisters. One of them will bring the healing balm, and then I will tell you about the payment."