VII

Dawn was just beginning to whiten the trees, bushes, and limestone boulders scattered here and there across the fields when the hired guide, walking beside Jurand's horse, stopped and said:

"Let me catch my breath, sir knight. I'm winded. It's a thaw, with fog, but we're nearly there..."

"You'll lead me to the high road, then turn back," Jurand replied.

"The road will be to the right past the copse. From the hill you'll see the castle."

Having said this, the man began to slap his arms—beating his hands under his armpits—for he'd grown chilled from the morning damp. Then he sat down on a stone, his labor having winded him further.

"Do you know if the komtur is in the castle?" Jurand asked.

"Where else would he be, when he's ill?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"People say Polish knights gave him a beating," the old peasant replied.

There was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. He was a subject of the Teutonic Knights, but his Masurian heart rejoiced at the superiority of Polish knights.

After a moment he added:

"Hey, our lords are strong, but life is hard dealing with them."

But then he looked sharply at the knight and, as if to reassure himself that no harm would come to him for the words that had slipped out, said:

"You speak our language, sir. You're not a German?"

"No," Jurand replied. "Lead on."

The man rose and began walking beside the horse again. From time to time he thrust his hand into a leather pouch, pulled out a handful of unground rye, and poured it into his mouth. Once he'd satisfied his first hunger this way, he began explaining why he ate raw grain—though Jurand, too absorbed in his own misfortune and thoughts, hadn't even noticed.

"Thank God for even this," he said. "Life is hard under our German masters. They've levied such taxes on grinding that a poor man has to chew grain with the husk, like an animal. And when they find a hand-mill in a hut, they beat the peasant, seize his livestock—why, they don't spare women or children either. They fear neither God nor priests. They even chained up the parson from Wielbark for scolding them about it. Oh, it's hard under the Germans! What little grain a man can crush between two stones, he saves that handful of flour for holy Sunday, and on Friday he has to eat like the birds. But thank God even for that, because when the lean season comes, there's nothing left at all. They won't let you fish. Can't hunt game either. Not like in Mazovia."

Thus the Teutonic peasant lamented, half to himself, half to Jurand. Meanwhile they passed a clearing covered with snow-blanketed limestone boulders and entered a forest that looked gray in the morning light, its raw, damp chill rising from the ground. It was now fully day; otherwise Jurand would have found it difficult to ride along the forest path, which sloped slightly upward and was so narrow that in places his enormous warhorse could barely squeeze between the tree trunks. But the copse soon ended, and after the length of a few prayers they reached the top of a white hill, along the middle of which ran a well-beaten high road.

"This is the road," the peasant said. "You can find your way from here, sir."

"I'll manage," Jurand replied. "Go back home, man."

He reached into the leather pouch fastened to the front of his saddle, pulled out a silver coin, and handed it to the guide. The peasant, more accustomed to blows than to gifts from the local Teutonic knights, could scarcely believe his eyes. He grabbed the coin, dropped his head to Jurand's stirrup, and embraced it with his hands.

"Oh, Jesus, Mary!" he cried. "May God reward your lordship!"

"Remain with God."

"May God's power guide you. Szczytno lies before you."

Having said this, he bowed once more to the stirrup and vanished. Jurand remained alone on the hill, gazing in the direction the peasant had indicated at the damp, gray curtain of fog that shrouded the world before him. Behind that fog lay the ominous castle toward which force and misfortune drove him. Close now, so close. And then whatever was to happen would happen. At this thought, into his heart—alongside fear and anxiety for Danusia, alongside his readiness to ransom her from hostile hands even with his own blood—there crept a new, intensely bitter feeling he had never known before: humiliation.

Here he was, Jurand, whose very name made the border komturs tremble, now riding to their summons with bowed head. He who had defeated so many of them and trampled them now felt defeated and trampled. Though they hadn't beaten him in the field, through courage or knightly strength, he still felt conquered. And it was so unprecedented that it seemed to him the whole order of the world had suddenly been overturned. He was going to humble himself before the Teutonic Knights—he who, if Danusia weren't at stake, would rather fight the entire Order's forces singlehandedly. Hadn't it happened that a single knight, faced with the choice between shame and death, would charge whole armies? And he felt that shame might be his lot, and at the thought, his heart howled with pain like a wolf howls when it feels a spear-point in its body.

But he was a man with a soul of iron as well as a body of iron. He knew how to break others, and he knew how to break himself.

"I will not budge," he told himself, "until I've bound this anger that could destroy the child rather than save her."

He grappled as if in a wrestling match with his own proud heart, his own stubbornness and lust for battle. Anyone who had seen him on that hill, in his armor, motionless atop his enormous horse, would have said he was some giant cast in iron. They would not have known that the motionless knight was at that moment fighting the hardest battle of his life. But he wrestled with himself until he had overcome himself, until he felt that his will would not fail him.

Meanwhile the fog thinned, and though it hadn't fully dispersed, something darker finally loomed through it. Jurand guessed it was the walls of Szczytno castle. At this sight he didn't move yet but began to pray—as fervently and devoutly as a man prays when nothing is left to him in this world but God's mercy.

And when at last he put his horse in motion, he felt a kind of courage beginning to enter his heart. He was ready now to bear whatever might come. He remembered Saint George, a descendant of the greatest house in Cappadocia, who endured various shameful torments and yet not only lost no honor but was seated at God's right hand and made patron of all knighthood. Jurand had often heard pilgrims from distant lands tell of his adventures, and the memory of them now strengthened his heart.

Slowly, hope too began to awaken in him. The Teutonic Knights were indeed known for their vengefulness, so he didn't doubt they would take vengeance on him for all the defeats he had inflicted on them, for the disgrace that fell on them after every encounter, and for the fear in which they had lived for so many years.

But that very thought encouraged him. He reasoned that they had seized Danusia only to get at him, so once they had him, what use was she to them? Yes. They would undoubtedly put him in chains and, not wanting to keep him near Mazovia, send him to some distant castle where he might groan in a dungeon for the rest of his life. But Danusia they would prefer to release. Even if it came to light that they had taken him by treachery and tormented him, neither the Grand Master nor the chapter would hold it against them—after all, he, Jurand, had indeed been a heavy burden to the Teutonic Knights and had spilled more of their blood than any other knight in the world. On the other hand, the Grand Master himself might punish them for imprisoning an innocent girl, especially the ward of a prince whose favor he was eagerly courting in the face of a looming war with the Polish king.

And hope gripped him more and more powerfully. At times it seemed nearly certain that Danusia would return to Spychów, under Zbyszko's powerful protection. "He's a tough lad," he thought. "He won't let anyone harm her." And he began recalling with a certain tenderness everything he knew about Zbyszko: "He fought the Germans at Wilno, challenged them to single combat, quartered the Frisians he and his uncle had summoned, struck Lichtenstein too, defended the child from the aurochs, and challenged those four others—he certainly won't spare them." Here Jurand raised his eyes to heaven and said:

"I give her to You, God. And You give her to Zbyszko!"

And he felt even lighter, for he thought that since God had given the girl to the young man, He would not let the Germans mock Him—He would snatch her from their hands, even if the whole Teutonic force refused to let her go. But then he began thinking of Zbyszko again: "And besides, the lad is not only tough but true as gold. He'll guard her, he'll love her. And Jesus, grant the child as much as You can. But it seems to me that with him she won't miss either the prince's court or her father's love." At this thought, Jurand's eyelids suddenly moistened, and a great longing broke in his heart. He would have liked, after all, to see his child one more time in life and someday, somewhere, to die in Spychów with those two, not in the dark dungeons of the Teutonic Knights. But God's will be done!...

Szczytno was now visible. The walls grew clearer through the fog. The hour of offering was near. He began to strengthen himself further and spoke to himself:

"It is God's will, of course. But the evening of life is near. A few years more, a few less—it comes to the same thing. Hey, I'd like to look on both children once more, but in all fairness, I've lived my fill. I've known what I had to know, avenged whom I had to avenge. And now what? Better toward God than toward the world, and if I must suffer, then I must. Danusia and Zbyszko, even if things go best for them, won't forget me. Surely they'll remember and wonder: where is he now? Alive, or already in God's assembly? They'll ask around, and perhaps they'll find out. The Teutonic Knights are greedy for vengeance, but greedy for ransom too. Zbyszko wouldn't begrudge paying even just to ransom my bones. And they'll certainly give for masses more than once. Their hearts are honest and loving, for which, God, and You, Most Holy Mother, bless them."

The road was not only growing wider but also more crowded. Carts loaded with wood and straw were heading toward the town. Herdsmen drove cattle. Frozen fish from the lakes were brought on sleds. In one place, four archers were leading a peasant on a chain—evidently to court for some offense, for his hands were tied behind his back and his feet chained, the shackles dragging in the snow and barely allowing him to move. Breath came from his panting nostrils and mouth in clouds of steam, while the guards, urging him on, sang. Seeing Jurand, they began staring at him curiously, obviously marveling at the rider's and horse's size. But at the sight of his golden spurs and knightly belt, they lowered their crossbows toward the ground in greeting and respect. In the town it was even more crowded and noisy, but people made way hastily for the armed man. He rode down the main street and turned toward the castle, which, wrapped in mist, seemed still asleep.

But not everything around was asleep—at least not the crows and ravens. Whole flocks of them swarmed on the rise that formed the approach to the castle, flapping their wings and cawing. Riding closer, Jurand understood the reason for this avian assembly. Beside the road leading to the castle gate stood a broad gallows, on which hung the bodies of four Masurian peasants of the Teutonic Knights. There was not the slightest breeze, so the corpses, which seemed to stare at their own feet, did not sway except when black birds perched on their shoulders and heads, pushing each other, jostling the ropes, and pecking at the drooping heads. Some of the hanged must have been dangling for a long time, for their skulls were completely bare and their legs extremely elongated. As Jurand approached, the flock rose with a great noise but quickly wheeled back in the air and began settling on the gallows' crossbeam. Jurand rode past, making the sign of the cross, approached the moat, and stopping where the drawbridge rose above the gate, sounded his horn.

Then he blew a second time, a third time, and waited. Not a living soul appeared on the walls, and no voice came from behind the gate. After a moment, however, the heavy trapdoor set in the gate, visible behind the portcullis, rose with a grinding sound, and in the opening appeared the bearded head of a German soldier.

"Wer da?" asked a harsh voice.

"Jurand of Spychów!" the knight replied.

At these words the trapdoor closed again, and a dead silence fell.

Time began to pass. No sound of movement came from behind the gate, only the cawing of birds from the direction of the gallows.

Jurand stood a long while before he raised his horn and sounded it again.

But silence answered him once more.

Then he understood: they were keeping him before the gate out of Teutonic pride—pride that knows no bounds toward the vanquished—to humiliate him like a beggar. He guessed that he might have to wait like this until evening, or longer. In the first moment, his blood boiled. A sudden urge seized him to dismount, pick up one of the stones lying before the moat, and hurl it at the portcullis. In other circumstances, both he and any other Masurian or Polish knight would have done exactly that, and then let those behind the gate come out and fight him. But remembering why he had come, he came to his senses and held back.