After heavy snows came severe frosts and clear, dry days. By day the forests sparkled in the sun's rays; ice bound the rivers and hardened the marshes. Bright nights followed, during which the frost intensified to such a degree that trees split with a crash in the woods, and birds drew near to human dwellings. The roads became dangerous because of wolves, which began to gather in packs and attack not only solitary travelers but even villages. Yet the people rejoiced in their smoky huts by the fires, predicting a fruitful year after the frosty winter, and waited cheerfully for the holidays that were soon to come. The prince's forest station stood empty. The duchess, along with her court and Father Wyszoniek, had left for Ciechanow. Zbyszko, considerably healthier but still not strong enough to mount a horse, remained at the station with his men, with Sanderus, with his squire Czech, and with the local servants, over whom a respectable noblewoman, acting as housekeeper, kept watch.
But the knight's soul yearned for his young wife. The thought that Danusia was already his and that no human power could take her from him was an immense consolation, yet on the other hand, that same thought intensified his longing. All day long he sighed for the moment when he could leave the station and pondered what he should do then, where to go, and how to win over Jurand. He also had moments of grave anxiety, but overall the future looked bright. To love Danusia and to crack helmets adorned with peacock feathers — that was to be his life. Often he felt like talking about it with Czech, whom he had come to like, but he noticed that Czech, whose whole soul was devoted to Jagienka, was reluctant to talk about Danusia. And he himself, bound by secrecy, could not tell him everything that had happened.
His health improved day by day, however. A week before Christmas Eve he mounted a horse for the first time, and although he felt he could not yet do so in armor, he still took heart. Nor did he expect to be surprised by the need to quickly don armor and helmet; in the worst case, he counted on soon having enough strength for that as well. In the chamber he tried, to kill time, to lift his sword, and it went fairly well. The axe proved too heavy for him, but he thought that if he grasped the haft with both hands, he could still swing it effectively.
Finally, two days before Christmas Eve, he ordered the wagons to be padded, the horses saddled, and announced to Czech that they would go to Ciechanow. The faithful squire was a bit worried, especially since there was a biting frost outside, but Zbyszko said to him: “That’s not your concern, Głowacz (for so he called him in the Polish manner). There’s nothing for us at this station, and even if I were to fall ill, there will be no lack of care in Ciechanow. Besides, I’ll travel not on horseback but in a sleigh, up to my neck in hay and under furs, and only just outside Ciechanow will I mount a horse.”
And so it was done. Czech already knew his young master and knew it was not good to oppose him, and even worse not to carry out an order swiftly. So an hour later they set off. At the moment of departure, Zbyszko, seeing Sanderus loading himself onto the hay along with his chest, said to him: “And you—why have you attached yourself to me like a burr to sheep’s wool? You said you wanted to go to Prussia.”
“I said I wanted to go to Prussia,” replied Sanderus, “but how can I go alone in such snow? The wolves will eat me, and there’s no reason for me to stay here either. I prefer the city, to edify people with piety, to gift them with holy wares, and to save them from diabolical snares, as I swore to the Father of all Christendom in Rome. Besides, I have come to love Your Grace terribly, so I will not leave you before I go to Rome, because perhaps I may render some service.”
“He’s always ready to eat and drink for you, sir,” said Czech in reply, “and that’s the kind of service he’d most like to render. But if a great pack of wolves attacks us in the Przasnysz forest, we’ll throw him to them as a sacrifice, because he’s good for nothing better.”
“And you watch out, lest your sinful words freeze to your mustache,” replied Sanderus, “for such icicles only melt in hellfire.”
“Oh ho!” said Głowacz, reaching with his glove to his mustache, which was just beginning to sprout. “First I’ll try to warm some beer at the stop, but I won’t give you any.”
“But it is commanded: give drink to the thirsty. A new sin!”
“Then I’ll give you a bucket of water, and meanwhile, here’s what I have at hand!” And so saying, he scooped up as much snow as he could hold in both gloves and threw it into Sanderus’s beard, but the latter dodged and said: “They have no use for you in Ciechanow, because they already have a trained little bear there that throws snow.”
Thus they teased each other, though they were quite fond of one another. Zbyszko, however, did not forbid Sanderus from traveling with him, for that odd fellow amused him and at the same time seemed truly attached to him. So they set out from the forest station on a bright morning, in such severe frost that the horses had to be covered. The whole land lay under deep snow. The roofs of huts were barely visible beneath the snow, and in places the smoke seemed to rise straight from white drifts, shooting upward, pink from the morning light, spreading at the top into plumes resembling knights’ crests.
Zbyszko traveled in a wagon, partly to conserve his strength and partly because of the great cold, from which it was easier to shelter in the wagons lined with hay and furs. He also ordered Głowacz to sit with him and keep crossbows at hand against wolves, while he chatted cheerfully with him: “In Przasnysz,” he said, “we’ll only feed the horses, warm ourselves, and then set off again immediately.”
“To Ciechanow?”
“First to Ciechanow, to pay our respects to the prince and duchess and to attend Mass.”
“And then?” asked Głowacz.
Zbyszko smiled and replied: “Then, who knows, perhaps to Bogdaniec.”
Czech looked at him with surprise. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps the young lord had renounced Jurandówna, and this seemed all the more likely because Jurandówna had left, and word had reached Czech’s ears at the forest station that the lord of Spychów was opposed to the young knight. So the good squire rejoiced, for although he loved Jagienka, he looked at her as at a star in the sky and would have gladly bought her happiness even with his own blood. He had also come to love Zbyszko and wished with all his soul to serve them both until death.
“Then Your Grace will settle on the family estate!” he said joyfully.
“How can I settle on the estate,” replied Zbyszko, “when I have challenged those Teutonic Knights, and before that Lichtenstein too? De Lorche said that the Grand Master is supposed to invite the king to Torun, so I will attach myself to the king’s retinue, and I think that in Torun, Zawisza z Garbowa or Powala of Taczew will obtain permission from our lord for me to fight those monks with sharp weapons. They will surely come with a squire to the fight, so you will also have to meet someone.”
“Then I would have to become a monk myself, if it were otherwise,” said Czech.
Zbyszko looked at him with satisfaction. “Well, it won’t go well for anyone who gets in your way. Lord Jesus gave you tremendous strength, but you would do wrong to boast too much of it, for humility befits a true squire.”
Czech began to nod his head, to show that he would not boast of his strength, but he would not stint it on the Germans either — and Zbyszko continued to smile, but no longer at the squire, only at his own thoughts.
“The old lord will be glad when we return,” said Głowacz after a moment, “and they will be glad in Zgorzelice too.”
Jagienka appeared before Zbyszko’s eyes as if she were sitting beside him in the sleigh. It always happened that when he happened to think of her, he saw her extremely clearly. “No!” he said to himself. “She will not be glad, for if I return to Bogdaniec, it will be with Danusia, and she can take someone else...” Then before his eyes flashed Wilk of Brzozowa and young Cztan of Rogów — and suddenly he felt distressed at the thought that the girl might fall into the hands of one of those two. “I’d rather she found someone better,” he said to himself, “for they are beer-guzzlers and gamblers, and she is an honest girl.” He also thought that his uncle, when he learned what had happened, would be annoyed in any case, but he immediately consoled himself with the thought that Macko had always cared first and foremost about the family and the wealth that could raise the family’s standing. Jagienka was indeed closer, separated only by a strip of land, but Jurand was a greater landholder than Zych of Zgorzelice, so it was easy to foresee that Macko would not long be angry about such a match, especially since he knew of his nephew’s love and how much Zbyszko owed Danusia. He would grumble, but then he would be glad and begin to love Danusia like his own child.
And suddenly Zbyszko’s heart stirred with affection and longing for that uncle, who was a tough man, and yet loved him like the apple of his eye: in battles he guarded him more than himself, for him he took spoils, for him he strove for property. They were two loners in the world — they had no close relatives, except perhaps distant ones like the abbot — so when they sometimes had to part, one without the other did not know what to do, especially the old man, who no longer desired anything for himself.
“Hey! He will be glad, he will be glad!” Zbyszko repeated to himself. “And that is all I want — that Jurand should receive me as he will.” And he tried to imagine what Jurand would say and do when he learned of the wedding. There was some anxiety in that thought, but not too much, precisely because the die was cast. After all, it would not be proper for Jurand to challenge him to a fight, and if he opposed too strongly, Zbyszko could answer him thus: “Consent, while I ask, for your right to Danusia is human, but mine is divine — and she is no longer yours, but mine.” He had once heard from a certain cleric, well-versed in scripture, that a woman should leave her father and mother and follow her husband — so he felt that the greater power was on his side. He did not expect, however, that it would come to bitter discord and anger between him and Jurand, for he counted on Danusia’s pleas to accomplish much, and equally, if not more, on the intercession of the prince, whose vassal Jurand was, and the duchess, whom he loved as the guardian of his child.
In Przasnysz they were advised to stay overnight, warned about the wolves, which due to the frosts had gathered into such large packs that they even attacked people traveling in groups. Zbyszko, however, did not want to heed this, for it happened that at the inn they met several Masovian knights with their retinues, who were also traveling to the prince in Ciechanow, and a few armed merchants from Ciechanow itself, leading laden wagons from Prussia. In such a large company there was no danger, so they set off at night, although toward evening a sudden wind arose, drove clouds, and a blizzard began. They rode, keeping close to one another, but so slowly that Zbyszko began to think they would not make it in time for Christmas Eve. In some places they had to dig through snowdrifts, as the horses could not pass at all. Fortunately, the forest road was not confusing. Nevertheless, dusk had already fallen when they caught sight of Ciechanow.
Perhaps they would have ridden around the city amid the snow clouds and the whistling of the winds, not realizing they were close, had it not been for the fires burning on the rise where a new castle was being built. No one knew for sure whether on Christmas Eve those fires were lit for the guests or for some ancient custom, but none of Zbyszko’s companions thought about that now — they all wanted to find shelter in the city as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, the blizzard grew stronger and stronger. The sharp, frosty wind carried immense clouds of snow, tore at the trees, roared, raged, lifted whole drifts, raised them high, twisted them, scattered them, covered the wagons and horses with them, cut at the travelers’ faces like sharp sand — stifled their breath and speech. The sound of the rattles attached to the shafts could not be heard at all; instead, in the howling and whistling of the storm, some mournful voices arose, like the howling of wolves, like the distant neighing of horses, and sometimes like human cries for help full of fear. The exhausted horses began to jostle each other with their flanks and move more and more slowly.
“Hey, what a blizzard, what a blizzard!” said Czech in a breathless voice. “Luckily, sir, we are near the city and those fires are burning, or else it would be bad for us.”
“Whoever is in the field faces death,” replied Zbyszko. “But now I no longer see the fire.”