"Are you threatening me?" de Fourcy interrupted.
"No, we're going to kill you," Danveld replied.
He stabbed him in the side with such force that the blade sank up to the cross-guard. De Fourcy let out a terrible scream. For a moment he tried to grab the sword he'd been holding in his left hand, but he dropped it to the ground. At the same time, the other three brothers began stabbing him without mercy—in the neck, the back, the belly—until he fell from his horse.
Silence followed. De Fourcy, bleeding horribly from a dozen wounds, writhed in the snow, clawing at it with fingers twisted by convulsions. Beneath the leaden sky, only the cawing of crows reached them as they flew from the deep forests toward human settlements.
Then the murderers began a hurried conversation.
"The men saw nothing," Danveld said breathlessly.
"Nothing. The retinues are ahead—they can't see us," de Löwe replied.
"Listen: this will give us grounds for a new complaint. We'll spread the word that Masovian knights attacked us and killed our companion. We'll raise such an outcry that they'll hear it in Malbork—that the prince himself sets murderers on guests."
"Listen: we must say that Prince Janusz not only refused to hear our complaints against Jurand, but had the complainant murdered."
Meanwhile, de Fourcy had turned onto his back in a final convulsion and lay still, bloody foam on his lips, terror in his dead, wide-open eyes. Brother Rotgier looked at him and said:
"Consider, pious brothers, how God punishes even the intention of treason."
"What we have done, we have done for the good of the Order," Godfrey replied. "Glory to those—"
But he broke off, because at that moment a rider appeared behind them, around a bend in the snowy road, racing at full gallop. Seeing him, Hugo de Danveld called out quickly:
"Whoever that man is—he must die!"
And de Löwe, who though the oldest among the brothers had exceptionally sharp eyesight, said:
"I recognize him! It's that squire who killed the aurochs with an axe. Yes, it's him!"
"Hide your knives so he doesn't get spooked," Danveld said. "I'll strike first again, and you follow."
Meanwhile, the Czech rode up and reined in his horse in the snow about ten or eight paces away. He spotted the corpse in a pool of blood, the riderless horse, and astonishment crossed his face—but only for an instant. A moment later he turned to the brothers as if he had seen nothing and said:
"Greetings, valiant knights!"
"We recognized you," Danveld replied, slowly approaching. "Do you have business with us?"
"I was sent by the knight Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, whose lance I carry. He was wounded by the aurochs during the hunt and could not come to you himself."
"What does your master want from us?"
"Because you unjustly accused Jurand of Spychów, injuring his knightly honor, my lord bids me tell you that you have not acted as true knights, but have barked like dogs. And whichever of you takes offense at these words, he challenges to combat—on foot or horseback, to the last breath. He will appear wherever you name, as soon as his present stiffness, by God's grace and mercy, lets up."
"Tell your master that monastic knights bear insults patiently for the Savior's name. As for combat, we cannot fight without special permission from the Grand Master or the Grand Marshal. We will, however, write to Malbork for that permission."
The Czech looked again at the corpse of Mr. de Fourcy, for it was he whom he had been sent to challenge. Zbyszko had known that the monks did not duel, but having heard there was a secular knight among them, he wanted to challenge him in particular, thinking that would earn him favor with Jurand. Now that knight lay slaughtered like an ox among four Teutonic Knights.
The Czech did not understand what had happened, but since he had been familiar with all manner of dangers since childhood, he sensed some peril. He was also struck by the fact that Danveld, while speaking, kept drawing nearer to him, while the others began to move to the sides, as if trying to encircle him unnoticed. For these reasons he grew wary, especially since he had no weapon with him—he had not managed to take one in the haste.
Meanwhile Danveld was close and continued:
"I promised your master a healing balm, and he repays my kindness poorly. That is the usual way with Poles... But since he is badly wounded and may soon stand before God, tell him..."
Here he placed his left hand on the Czech's shoulder.
"So tell him that I answer like this!..."
And at that same moment a knife flashed at the squire's throat. But before he could stab, the Czech, who had long been watching his movements, seized Danveld's right hand with his iron grip, twisted it, wrenched it—until the joints and bones crunched. Then, hearing a terrible howl of pain, he spurred his horse and shot away like an arrow before the others could block him.
Brothers Rotgier and Godfrey began to chase him, but soon turned back, alarmed by Danveld's horrific scream. De Löwe supported him under the arms while Danveld, his face pale and bluish, screamed so loudly that even the retainers riding by the wagons far ahead reined in their horses.
"What's the matter?" the brothers asked.
But de Löwe ordered them to ride as fast as possible and bring a wagon, for Danveld clearly could not stay in the saddle. A moment later, cold sweat covered his forehead and he fainted.
When the wagon arrived, they laid him on the straw and set out toward the border. De Löwe urged haste, for he understood that after what had happened, they could not waste time—not even to dress Danveld's wound. Sitting beside him on the wagon, he occasionally rubbed his face with snow, but could not bring him back to consciousness.
Only near the border did Danveld open his eyes and look around as if in surprise.
"How are you?" de Löwe asked.
"I don't feel pain, but I don't feel my hand either," Danveld replied.
"It's gone numb—that's why the pain stopped. It'll come back in a warm room. Meanwhile, thank God for a moment's relief."
Then Rotgier and Godfrey rode up to the wagon.
"Misfortune has struck," the former said. "What now?"
"We'll say," Danveld replied in a weak voice, "that the squire murdered de Fourcy."
"A new crime of theirs, and the culprit is known," Rotgier added.