III.
The news of the incident at Szczytno reached Warsaw before Brother Rotgier, causing astonishment and alarm. Neither the prince himself nor anyone at court could understand what had happened. Not long before, just as Nicholas of Długolas was about to set out for Malbork with the prince’s letter—in which he bitterly complained about the abduction of Danusia by unruly border komturs and demanded her immediate return in near-threatening terms—a letter had arrived from the lord of Spychów announcing that his daughter had been seized not by Krzyżacy but by common border bandits, and that she would soon be freed for a ransom. As a result, the envoy did not go, for it never crossed anyone’s mind that the Krzyżacy could have forced such a letter from Jurand under threat of his child’s death. Even so, the affair was difficult to understand, for the border outlaws, both those subject to the prince and those subject to the Order, usually made their raids in summer, not winter, when snow betrayed their tracks. They generally attacked merchants or committed robberies, snatching people from villages and driving off their herds, but that they would dare to touch the prince himself and kidnap his ward, who was also the daughter of a powerful and universally feared knight, seemed to strain human belief. Yet that, along with other doubts, was answered by Jurand’s letter bearing his own seal, brought this time by a man known to come from Spychów. In the face of this, all suspicion became impossible; the prince only flew into a rage such as had not been seen in him for a long time, ordered a pursuit of the brigands along the entire border of his duchy, and summoned the Prince of Płock to do the same and not stint on punishing the insolent.
Then, precisely at that moment, news came of what had happened in Szczytno.
And passing from mouth to mouth, it reached them magnified tenfold.
They told how Jurand, arriving at the castle with only five companions, had burst through the open gates and wrought such slaughter among the garrison that few were left; how help had to be sent for from nearby castles, summoning the better knights and armed companies of footmen, who only after a two-day siege managed to break back into the castle and there slay Jurand along with his companions. They also said that those troops would probably now cross the border, and that a great war would inevitably begin. The prince, who knew how much it mattered to the Grand Master that, in case of war with the Polish king, the forces of both Mazovian duchies should stand aside, did not believe these tales, for it was no secret to him that if the Krzyżacy started a war with him or with Ziemowit of Płock, no human force would hold the Poles back; and the Grand Master feared that war. He knew it must come, but wished to delay it, first because he was peaceable by nature, and second because to measure himself against Jagiello’s power he needed to gather a force such as the Order had never yet fielded, and at the same time secure the aid of princes and knights not only in Germany but throughout the West.
So the prince was not afraid of war, but he wanted to know what had actually happened, what he should really think about the incident at Szczytno, about Danusia’s disappearance, and about all those reports coming from the border. Accordingly, though he detested the Krzyżacy, he was glad when one evening the captain of the archers informed him that a monastic knight had arrived and requested an audience.
He received him haughtily, however, and though he immediately recognized him as one of the brothers who had been at the Forest Manor, he pretended not to remember him and asked who he was, where he came from, and what brought him to Warsaw.
“I am Brother Rotgier,” replied the Krzyżak, “and not long ago I had the honor of bowing to Your Princely Grace’s knees.”
“Then why, being a brother, do you not wear the insignia of the Order?”
The knight began to explain that he had not donned the white cloak only because, had he done so, he would certainly have been captured or killed by the Mazovian knights: everywhere, throughout the whole world, in all kingdoms and duchies, the sign of the cross on a cloak protected a man, winning him goodwill and hospitality—and only in the one Duchy of Mazovia did the cross bring certain doom to the man who wore it.
But the prince interrupted him angrily.
“Not the cross,” he said, “for we too kiss the cross—it is your own wickedness... And if you are better received elsewhere, it is because they know you less.”
Then, seeing that the knight was greatly discomfited by these words, he asked:
“Were you in Szczytno, or do you know what happened there?”
“I was in Szczytno and I know what happened there,” replied Rotgier, “and I come here not as anyone’s envoy, but only because the experienced and holy Komtur of Innsbruck said to me: ‘Our Master loves the pious prince and trusts in his justice; so while I hurry to Malbork, you go to Mazovia and present our grievance, our dishonor, our misery. Surely the righteous Lord will not praise the peace-breaker and cruel assailant who has spilled so much Christian blood, as if he served not Christ but Satan.’”
And then he began to tell everything that had happened in Szczytno: how Jurand, summoned by them expressly to see whether the girl they had taken from the bandits was his daughter, instead of showing gratitude had flown into a rage; how he had killed Danveld, Brother Godfrey, the Englishman Hugh, von Bracht, and two noble squires, not counting the men-at-arms; how they, mindful of God’s commandments and unwilling to kill, had finally to entangle the terrible man in a net, after which he turned his weapon against himself and wounded himself grievously; and how, finally, not only in the castle but also in the town, people had heard, amid the winter blizzard, during the night after the fight, terrible laughter and voices crying in the air: “Our Jurand! The wronger of the Cross! The spiller of innocent blood! Our Jurand!”
The whole account, and especially the Krzyżak’s last words, made a deep impression on everyone present. They were simply seized with fear—had Jurand indeed summoned unclean powers to his aid? A dead silence fell. But the duchess, who was present at the audience and who, loving Danusia, carried inconsolable grief for her in her heart, turned to Rotgier with an unexpected question.
“You say, knight,” she said, “that having rescued the foundling girl, you thought she was Jurand’s daughter, and therefore summoned him to Szczytno?”
“Yes, Gracious Lady,” replied Rotgier.
“But how could you think that, since you saw the real Jurandówna with me at the Forest Manor?”
At this Brother Rotgier became flustered, for he was not prepared for the question. The prince rose and fixed a stern gaze on the Krzyżak, while Nicholas of Długolas, Mrokota of Mocarzewo, Jaśko z Jagielnicy, and other Mazovian knights immediately crowded around the monk, asking in turn with threatening voices:
“How could you think that? Speak, German! How was that possible?”
And Brother Rotgier recovered and said:
“We monks do not lift our eyes to women. There were not a few maidens with the Gracious Duchess at the Forest Manor, and none of us knew which among them was Jurandówna.”
“Danveld knew,” said Nicholas of Długolas. “He even spoke with her at the hunt.”
“Danveld stands before God,” replied Rotgier, “and I will say of him only this: the next day, blooming roses were found on his coffin, which no human hand could have placed there in the winter season.”
Silence fell again.
“How did you learn of the abduction of Jurandówna?” asked the prince.
“The very godlessness and audacity of the deed made it noised about here and among us. So when we heard of it, we had thanksgiving masses offered, that it was only an ordinary court girl, and not one of Your Graces’ own children, who had been carried off from the Forest Manor.”
“But it still puzzles me that you could take a foundling for Jurand’s daughter.”
To which Brother Rotgier replied:
“Danveld said: ‘Often Satan betrays his servants, so perhaps he changed Jurandówna.’”
“Yet the bandits, being simple folk, could not have forged Father Kaleb’s letter and Jurand’s seal. Who could have done that?”
“An evil spirit.”
And again no one could find an answer.
Rotgier then began to look closely into the prince’s eyes and said:
“Truly, these questions are like swords in my breast, for they carry a suspicion and an accusation. But trusting in God’s justice and the power of truth, I ask Your Princely Grace: did Jurand himself accuse us of that deed? And if he did, why, before we summoned him to Szczytno, did he search the whole border for the bandits to ransom his daughter?”
“Well... that is true!” said the prince. “Even if you hide something from men, you cannot hide it from God. He suspected you at first, but then... then he thought otherwise.”
“See how the light of truth overcomes darkness!” said Rotgier.
And he cast a victorious glance around the hall, for he thought that in Krzyżackie heads there was more cunning and sense than in Polish ones, and that this race would always be the prey and food of the Order, just as a fly is the prey and food of a spider.
So casting off his previous courtesy, he stepped up to the prince and began to speak in a raised, insistent voice:
“Compensate us, Lord, for our losses, our wrongs, our tears, and our blood! This hellish man was your subject, so in the name of God, from whom the power of kings and princes flows, in the name of Justice and the Cross, compensate us for our wrongs and blood!”
The prince looked at him in astonishment.
“By the dear God!” he said. “What do you want? If Jurand in his madness spilled your blood, am I to answer for his madness?”
“He was your subject, Lord,” said the Krzyżak, “and in your duchy lie his lands, his villages, and his stronghold, where he imprisoned the servants of the Order. Let therefore that property, let those lands and that godless castle, henceforth become the Order’s possession. Truly, it will not be a worthy recompense for this noble blood that was spilled! Truly, it will not raise the dead, but perhaps it will partly appease God’s wrath and wipe away the dishonor that would otherwise fall upon this entire duchy. O Lord! Everywhere the Order possesses lands and castles that the grace and piety of Christian princes have granted it; only here is there not a span of land in its possession. Let our wrong, which cries to God for vengeance, be thus compensated, so that we may say that even here live people who have the fear of God in their hearts!”
Hearing this, the prince was even more astonished, and only after a long silence replied:
“By God’s wounds!... And if this Order of yours is established here, from whose grace, if not from that of my ancestors? Do you not have enough of those lands, those territories and cities that once belonged to us and to our nation, and that are now yours? Jurand’s daughter is still alive, since no one has reported her death to you, and you already want to seize the orphan’s dowry and compensate your wrongs with the orphan’s bread?”
“Lord, you admit the wrong,” said Rotgier, “so compensate it as your princely conscience and your just soul command.”
And again he was glad in his heart, for he thought: “Now they will not only refrain from complaining, but will even deliberate how to wash their hands of this affair and wriggle out of it. No one will reproach us anymore, and our fame will be like the white cloak of the Order—spotless.”
But then the voice of old Nicholas of Długolas rang out unexpectedly:
“They accuse you of greed, and God knows if not rightly, for even in this matter you care more for profit than for the Order’s honor.”
“True!” chorused the Mazovian knights.
And the Krzyżak took a few steps forward, raised his head proudly, and measuring them with a lofty gaze, said:
“I come here not as an envoy, but as a witness to the affair and a monastic knight, ready to defend the Order’s honor with my own blood to my last breath! So if anyone, contrary to what Jurand himself said, dares to accuse the Order of participation in the abduction of his daughter, let him pick up this knightly pledge and commit himself to God’s judgment!”
Having said this, he threw his knightly gauntlet before them; it fell to the floor, while they stood in dead silence, for though many among them would gladly have chipped their swords on a Krzyżacki neck, they feared God’s judgment. It was no secret to anyone that Jurand had plainly declared that it was not the monastic knights who had stolen his child, so every man thought in his soul that there was right—and therefore victory—on Rotgier’s side.
And Rotgier grew even bolder, placed his hands on his hips, and asked:
“Is there anyone who will pick up this gauntlet?”
Then a knight, whose entrance no one had previously noticed, and who had been listening by the door for some time, stepped forward, picked up the gauntlet, and said:
“I will!”
And having said that, he threw his own straight into Rotgier’s face, then began to speak in a voice that, in the midst of the general silence, rang through the hall like thunder:
“Before God, before the noble prince, and before all the worthy knighthood of this land, I say to you, Krzyżak, that you bark like a dog against justice and truth—and I challenge you to a duel on foot or on horseback, with lances, axes, short or long swords—not to captivity, but to the last breath, to death!”
In the hall you could have heard a fly. All eyes turned to Rotgier and to the challenging knight, whom no one recognized, for on his head he wore a helmet—without a visor, true, but with a circular brim that came down below his eyes, hiding the upper part of his face entirely and casting a deep shadow on the lower. The Krzyżak was no less astonished than the rest. Confusion, pallor, and furious anger flashed across his face like lightning across the night sky. He seized the gauntlet, which after sliding from his face had caught on the spike of his shoulder piece, and asked:
“Who are you, who challenge God’s justice?”
And the other unbuckled the clasp under his chin, took off his helmet, revealing a fair young head, and said:
“Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, husband of Jurand’s daughter!”
Everyone was amazed, Rotgier along with the rest, for none of them—except the prince and duchess, Father Wyszoniek, and de Lorche—knew about Danusia’s marriage; the Krzyżacy were certain that besides her father, Jurandówna had no other natural defender. But at that moment Sir de Lorche stepped forward and said:
“I swear on my knightly honor that his words are true; if anyone dares to doubt it, here is my pledge.”
Rotgier, who did not know fear and whose heart was seething with rage at that moment, might have picked up that gauntlet too, but remembering that the man who had thrown it was a powerful lord in his own right and a relative of Count Goldrya, he restrained himself; and he did so all the more because the prince himself stood up, frowned, and said:
“That pledge may not be taken up, for I too attest that this knight has spoken the truth.”
Hearing this, the Krzyżak bowed, then said to Zbyszko:
“If you will, then on foot, in closed lists, with axes.”
“I have already challenged you first,” replied Zbyszko.
“May God grant victory to justice!” cried the Mazovian knights.