III.
Duchess Danuta, Macko, and Zbyszko had been to Tyniec before, but some courtiers in the retinue were seeing it for the first time. They lifted their eyes in wonder, staring at the magnificent abbey—the crenellated walls clinging to cliffs above sheer precipices, the buildings stacked along the slopes and within the battlements, piled high and gleaming gold in the rising sun. From those imposing walls and halls, from the houses and workshops built for every purpose, from the gardens at the mountain's foot, and from the carefully tilled fields that the eye commanded from above, one could tell at a glance: this was ancient, boundless wealth. The people from poor Masovia were unused to such splendor; they could only marvel. There were certainly other ancient and powerful Benedictine abbeys in the kingdom—Lubusz on the Oder, Płock, Greater Poland, Mogilno, and elsewhere—but none could rival Tyniec. Its holdings surpassed many a sovereign duchy, and its revenues would have stirred envy in the kings of that age.
Wonder spread through the courtiers; some could scarcely believe their eyes. The duchess, hoping to shorten the road and entertain her ladies-in-waiting, asked one of the monks to tell the old and terrible tale of Walgierz the Doughty. She had heard it before in Krakow, though not in full.
The young ladies gathered in a tight flock around their mistress and walked slowly up the hill, looking in the early sunlight like moving flowers.
"Let Brother Hidulf tell about Walgierz," said one monk, glancing at another—a man already advanced in years, who walked with a slight stoop beside Mikołaj z Długolasu. "The spirit appeared to him one night."
"Did you see him with your own eyes, reverend father?" asked the duchess.
"I saw him," the monk replied gloomily. "There are times when, by God's will, he is permitted to leave the infernal depths and show himself to the world."
"When does that happen?"
The monk looked at two others and fell silent. Tradition held that Walgierz's spirit appeared when the order's morals decayed, when the monks thought more of worldly wealth and pleasure than they ought. None wanted to say that aloud. But since the apparition was also said to foretell war or other calamities, Brother Hidulf added, after a moment:
"His appearance bodes no good."
"I would not want to see him either," said the duchess, crossing herself. "But why is he in hell? I heard he avenged a grievous wrong done to him."
"Even if he had lived a virtuous life," the monk replied sternly, "he would still be damned. He lived in pagan times and was never cleansed of original sin by holy baptism."
The duchess's brows drew together in pain. It occurred to her that her great father, whom she loved with all her soul, had also died in pagan error—and would burn for all eternity.
"Go on," she said after a moment.
Brother Hidulf began:
"In pagan times there was a mighty count, called Walgierz the Doughty for his great beauty. This entire land, as far as the eye could see, belonged to him. On campaign he led a hundred lancers besides foot soldiers, for all the yeomen from as far west as Opole and east to Sandomierz were his vassals. No one could count his herds, and in Tyniec he had a tower filled with money, as the Krzyżacy now have in Malbork."
"I know they do!" Duchess Danuta interrupted.
"He was like a giant," the monk continued. "He could pull up oaks by the roots. In beauty, in playing the lute, and in singing, none in the whole world could match him. Once, at the court of the King of France, Princess Helgunda—whom her father wanted to place in a convent for God's glory—fell in love with him and fled with him to Tyniec. They lived in lewdness there, for no priest would give them a Christian wedding. Now in Wiślica there lived Wisław Piękny, of the line of King Popiel. During Walgierz's absence, he ravaged the Tyniec lands. Walgierz defeated him and brought him captive to Tyniec, not realizing that every woman who saw Wisław was ready to abandon father, mother, and husband just to be with him. So it happened with Helgunda. She devised such bonds for Walgierz that the giant, though he uprooted oaks, could not break them—and she handed him over to Wisław, who took him to Wiślica. But Rynga, Wisław's sister, heard Walgierz singing in the dungeon, fell in love at once, and freed him. He cut down Wisław and Helgunda with his sword, left their bodies to the crows, and returned to Tyniec with Rynga."
"Did he not do rightly?" asked the duchess.
Brother Hidulf said: "If he had accepted baptism and given Tyniec to the Benedictines, God would have forgiven his sins. But he did not, so the earth swallowed him."
"But were the Benedictines already in this kingdom?"
"There were no Benedictines here. Only pagans lived in this land at that time."
"Then how could he have accepted baptism or given away Tyniec?"
"He could not. That is why he is condemned to eternal torment in hell," the monk replied gravely.
"Indeed! He speaks rightly!" several voices chimed.
By then they had reached the main monastery gate, where the abbot awaited the duchess at the head of a numerous retinue of monks and nobles.
He was a tall man with a lean, intelligent face. His head was shaved on top, ringed with graying hair above the ears. A scar crossed his forehead—a wound from his younger knightly days. His eyes were penetrating and proud beneath dark brows. He wore the same habit as the others, but over it a black cloak lined with purple. A gold chain hung around his neck, bearing a gold cross set with precious stones: the insignia of his office.
He greeted the duchess courteously, even humbly—for he remembered that her husband came from the same line of Masovian princes as King Władysław and King Kazimierz, and through the distaff side, the reigning queen herself, ruler of one of the greatest states in the world. He stepped over the threshold, bowed his head low, blessed Anna Danuta and the entire court with a small gold pyx held between the fingers of his right hand, and said:
"Welcome, gracious lady, to our humble monastic threshold. May Saint Benedict of Nursia, Saint Maurus, Saint Boniface, and Saint Benedict of Aniane, and also John of Tolomei—our patrons dwelling in eternal light—grant you health and happiness, and bless you seven times each day for all the days of your life."
"They would have to be deaf not to heed the words of so great an abbot," the duchess replied graciously, "especially since we have come for Mass, during which we will entrust ourselves to their care."
She extended her hand; he knelt gallantly on one knee and kissed it in knightly fashion. Then they passed through the gate. Mass was clearly awaited: bells and chimes sounded, trumpeters blew loudly at the church doors in her honor, and others beat huge kettledrums forged of red copper and covered with skin, giving a resounding echo.
The duchess had not been born in a Christian country, and every church still made a strong impression on her. This one at Tyniec struck her all the more, for few could rival its splendor. Darkness filled the depths of the temple; only at the high altar did strands of colored light quiver, mingling with candle-glow that brightened the gilding and carvings. A monk in a chasuble came out to celebrate Mass, bowed to the duchess, and began the offering. Soon fragrant clouds of incense rose, veiling the priest and altar before drifting upward in calm billows, deepening the solemnity. Anna Danuta leaned her head back, spread her hands at face-height, and began to pray fervently. Then the organ sounded—still rare in churches in those days—shaking the whole nave with magnificent thunder, filling it with angelic voices, showering it like a nightingale's song. The duchess's eyes lifted upward; on her face, alongside piety and awe, a boundless delight appeared. Anyone looking at her might have thought her a blessed soul seeing heaven opened in a wondrous vision.
Thus prayed the daughter of Kestutis, born in paganism. In daily life, like all people of that time, she invoked God's name in a friendly, familiar way. But in the house of the Lord, she raised her eyes in childlike fear and humility toward the mysterious and immeasurable power.
The entire court prayed just as devoutly, though with less fear. Zbyszko knelt before the stalls among the Masurians—only the ladies had entered the stalls with the duchess—and commended himself to God's care. At times he glanced at Danushka, who sat with half-closed eyes near the duchess. It was worth becoming a knight to such a girl, he thought, but what he had promised her was no small thing. He had already girded himself with a hempen rope when he took up his captured jacket, but that was only half the vow. The other half would be far harder to fulfill. Now that the beer and wine he had drunk at the inn had cleared from his head, he worried: how could he do it? There was no war. Amid the border turmoil, it was easy enough to run into an armed German and either break his bones or lay down his own life. That's what he told Macko. "But," he thought, "not just any Krzyżak wears a peacock or ostrich plume on his helmet." Among the Zakon's guests, only some counts wore such plumes; among the Krzyżacy themselves, only a commander, and not every one. If war did not come, years might pass before he won his three plumes. It also occurred to him that since he had not yet been knighted, he could only challenge to single combat those who were likewise not knights. He could hope to receive the knightly belt from the king's hand during the tournaments announced for the christening—he had long since earned that—but then what? He would go to Jurand of Spychów, help him, beat as many servants as he could, and that would be that. Teutonic servants were not knights with peacock feathers on their helmets.
In this distress and uncertainty, seeing that without special divine favor he could accomplish little, he began to pray:
"Grant, Jesus, war with the Krzyżacy, who are enemies of this kingdom and of all nations that confess Your holy name in our tongue. Bless us, and crush them—who serve the infernal steward rather than You, bearing hatred in their hearts against us, most angered because our King and Queen, having baptized Lithuania, forbid them to cut down Your Christian servants with the sword. Punish them for that anger.
"And I, sinful Zbyszko, confess to You and beg aid from Your five wounds: send me, as soon as possible, three notable Krzyżacy with peacock plumes on their helmets, and in Your mercy allow me to beat them to death. I have promised those plumes to Lady Danushka, daughter of Jurand and Your servant, and sworn by my knightly honor.
"As for whatever else is found on the slain, I will faithfully give a tenth to Your holy church, so that You, sweet Jesus, may have profit and glory from me, and know that I promised You with a sincere heart, not in vain. And as this is true, so help me, amen!"
But the more he prayed, the more his heart melted with piety. He added a new promise: after redeeming Bogdaniec from pawn, he would give to the church all the wax the bees made in the forest hives throughout the year. He hoped Uncle Macko would not object. The Lord Jesus would be especially pleased with wax for candles—and wanting to get it sooner, He would help sooner. That thought seemed so reasonable that joy filled his soul. He was almost certain now: he would be heard, war would come soon, and even if it did not, he would still achieve his goal. He felt such strength in his hands and legs that at that moment he would have attacked an entire banner all alone. He even thought he might add two more Krzyżacy to the promise for Danushka. His youthful zeal pushed him to do it, but prudence prevailed—he feared that excessive demands might weary God's patience.
Nevertheless, his confidence grew even more after Mass and the long rest the court took. He overheard the conversation the abbot had over breakfast with Anna Danuta.
In those days, the wives of princes and kings—both from piety and from the lavish gifts the Zakon's Masters did not spare them—showed great friendship toward the Krzyżacy. Even the saintly Jadwiga, as long as she lived, held back the hand her powerful husband had raised against them. Only Anna Danuta, who had suffered grievous family wrongs at their hands, hated them with all her soul. So when the abbot asked her about Masovia and its affairs, she began to complain bitterly about the Zakon.