IV.
It was well past noon when the duchess set out from the hospitable Tyniec with her retinue for Krakow.
For the sake of display, both Macko and Zbyszko had donned excellent cuirasses and pauldrons, taken from Frisian knights—bright, gleaming, and decorated along the edges with inlaid gold thread. Mikołaj z Długolasu, who had seen much of the world and many knights in his life and was no mean connoisseur of martial matters, recognized at once that they were armor forged by Milanese armorers, the most famous in the world, such as only the wealthiest knights could afford, each worth a good estate. He concluded that those Frisians must have been eminent men among their people and began to regard Macko and Zbyszko with all the greater respect. But their helmets, though also fine, were not so rich; instead, their enormous stallions, beautifully caparisoned, aroused admiration and envy among the courtiers.
Both Macko and Zbyszko, sitting on immensely high saddles, looked down upon the entire court. Each held a long lance in hand, had a sword at his side and an axe at his saddle. They had indeed given their shields to the wagons for comfort, but even without them, both looked as though they were riding to battle, not to the city.
Both also rode near the carriage, in which the duchess sat with Danusia on the rear seat, while in front sat the dignified lady-in-waiting Ofka z Jarząbkowa, widow of Krystyn z Jarząbkowa, and old Mikołaj z Długolasu. Danusia watched the iron knights with great interest, while the duchess, from time to time, took out from her bosom a casket with the relics of Saint Ptolemy and raised it to her lips.
“I am terribly curious what bones are inside,” she said at last, “but I will not open it myself, so as not to offend the saint. Let the bishop in Krakow open it.”
To which cautious Mikołaj z Długolasu replied: “Eh, better not let it out of your hands, it’s too tempting a thing.”
“Perhaps you speak rightly,” said the duchess after a moment of reflection, then added: “No one has given me such pleasure in a long time as that worthy abbot, both with this gift and with calming my fear of the Teutonic relics.”
“He spoke wisely and justly,” said Macko of Bogdaniec. “They had various relics even near Vilnius, and all the more so because they wanted to convince the guests that it was a war against pagans. And what then? Our men saw that if you spit in your hands and swing an axe from the ear, both the helmet gives way and the head gives way. The saints help—it would be a sin to say otherwise—but only the righteous, who go to battle according to justice in God’s name. So I also think, my gracious lady, that if a great war comes, even if all the Germans help the Teutonic Knights, we will strike them down, because our nation is greater and the Lord Jesus has placed greater strength in our bones. And as for relics, is there not in our monastery of the Holy Cross the wood of the Holy Cross?”
“True, as God is my witness,” said the duchess. “But with us it stays in the monastery, while they carry theirs with them in need.”
“All the same! For God’s power, there is no distance.”
“Is that true? Tell me how it is?” asked the duchess, turning to the wise Mikołaj z Długolasu.
And he replied: “Every bishop would confirm that. Rome is also far away, and the Pope rules the world, so how much more so God!”
These words completely calmed the duchess, so she turned the conversation to Tyniec and its splendors.
“It is Casimir’s royal estate,” said the duchess, “but one could live here and never die.”
“That is strange to me,” spoke up Lady Ofka z Jarząbkowa, widow of Krystyn z Jarząbkowa, “that Walgierz the Doughty, about whom the monks told, can show himself at Tyniec, where bells ring seven times a day.”
This remark troubled Mikołaj z Długolasu for a moment, who only after some reflection replied: “First of all, God’s judgments are inscrutable.”
“Well, let it be as it may, but I am glad we are not spending the night in the monastery. I would surely die of fear if such a hellish giant appeared to me.”
“Hey! One never knows, for they say he is exceedingly doughty.”
“Even if he were the handsomest, I do not want to see one from whose mouth sulfur bursts.”
“Eh, do not call the wolf from the forest,” replied the Mazur, “for the fiend often wanders even on the highway between Krakow and Tyniec, especially toward evening; what if he appears to you in the form of a giant!”
“Curse it!” replied Ofka.
But at that moment Macko of Bogdaniec, who, sitting on a tall stallion, could see farther than those in the carriage, pulled on the reins and said: “Oh, as God is my witness, and what is that?”
“What is it?”
“Some giant is riding out from behind the hill ahead of us.”
“And the Word was made flesh!” exclaimed the duchess. “Do not say just anything.”
But Zbyszko rose in his stirrups and said: “As I live, it is the giant Walgierz, no one else.”
At that the coachman stopped the horses in fear, and without letting go of the reins, began to cross himself, for he too had already seen from his box the gigantic figure of a rider on the opposite hill.
The duchess rose and immediately sat back down with a face changed by fear; Danusia hid her head in the folds of the duchess’s dress. The courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, and minstrels who rode on horseback behind the carriage, upon hearing the ominous name, began to gather around her. The men pretended to still laugh, but had unease in their eyes; the maidens paled.
Only Mikołaj z Długolasu, who had eaten bread from many an oven, kept a calm countenance and, wanting to calm the duchess, said: “Do not be afraid, my gracious lady. The sun has not yet set, and even if it were night, Saint Ptolemy will manage Walgierz.”
Meanwhile, the unknown rider, having ridden onto the elongated crest of the hill, stopped his horse and stood motionless. In the rays of the setting sun, he could be seen perfectly, and indeed his figure seemed to exceed ordinary human size. The distance between him and the duchess’s retinue was no more than three hundred paces.
“Why is he standing?” said one of the minstrels.
“Because we are standing too,” replied Macko.
“He is looking at us as if he wanted to choose someone,” noted another minstrel. “If I knew that he was a man and not an evil spirit, I would ride up to him and hit him over the head with my lute.”
The women were already completely frightened and began to pray aloud, while Zbyszko, wanting to show off his courage before the duchess and Danusia, said: “But I will ride anyway. What is Walgierz to me?”
At that Danusia began to call out, half crying: “Zbyszko! Zbyszko!”
But he spurred his horse and rode faster and faster, confident that even if he found the real Walgierz, he would pierce him through with his lance.
And Macko, who had sharp eyes, said: “He seems like a giant because he stands on the hill. Some big fellow, but an ordinary man, nothing else. Oh well! I will ride too, to prevent a quarrel between him and Zbyszko.”
Zbyszko meanwhile, riding at a trot, considered whether to level his lance at once or first to see up close what that man standing on the hill looked like. He decided, however, to see first, and soon realized it was a better idea, for as he approached, the stranger began to lose his extraordinary dimensions in his eyes.
The man was huge and sat on a huge horse, even larger than Zbyszko’s stallion—but he did not exceed human measure. He was moreover without armor, in a velvet cap on his head shaped like a bell, and in a white linen cloak protecting from dust, from which a green garment was visible. Standing on the hill, he had his head raised and was praying. He had obviously stopped his horse to finish his evening prayers.
“Hey, what a Walgierz!” thought the young lad.
He had ridden so close that he could have reached the stranger with his lance; and the latter, seeing before him a splendidly armed young knight, smiled at him kindly and said: “Praised be Jesus Christ!”
“Forever and ever.”
“Is that not the court of the Duchess of Masovia down there?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you are coming from Tyniec?”
But to that there was no answer, for Zbyszko was so astonished that he did not even hear the question. For a moment he stood as if petrified, not believing his own eyes, for there, a quarter of a staje (about thirty paces) behind the unknown man, he saw a dozen or so mounted soldiers, at the head of whom, but far ahead, rode a knight clad all in shining armor, in a white cloth cloak with a black cross, and in a steel helmet with a splendid peacock crest on the ridge.
“A Krzyżak,” whispered Zbyszko.
And at this sight he thought that his prayers had been heard, that God in His mercy was sending him such a German as he had asked for at Tyniec, that he must avail himself of divine grace, so without hesitating a moment, before everything had flashed through his mind, before he had time to recover from his astonishment, he bent forward in the saddle, couched his lance at half the horse’s ear, and uttering the clan cry “Grady! Grady!”, he charged at full gallop toward the Krzyżak.
And the Krzyżak was also astonished, for he reined in his horse and, without lowering his lance, which stuck upright from the stirrup, looked ahead, as if unsure whether it was aimed at him.
“Lower your lance!” screamed Zbyszko, driving the iron ends of his stirrups into the horse’s flanks. “Grady! Grady!”
The distance between them began to shrink. The Krzyżak, seeing that the attack was truly aimed at him, reined in his horse and presented his weapon, and Zbyszko’s lance was about to shatter against his chest when suddenly a mighty hand snapped Zbyszko’s lance at the very handhold, like a dry reed, and then the same hand pulled on his horse’s reins with such terrible force that the stallion dug in all four hooves and stopped as if rooted to the ground.
“Madman, what are you doing?” sounded a deep, threatening voice. “You are striking at an envoy, insulting the king.”
Zbyszko looked and recognized the same gigantic man who, taken for Walgierz, had frightened the duchess’s court ladies a moment earlier.
“Let me at the German! Who are you?” he shouted, grasping the handle of his axe.
“Away with the axe! For the love of God, away with the axe, I say, or I will throw you from your horse!” shouted the stranger even more threateningly. “You have insulted the king’s majesty and you will go to trial.”
Then he turned to the men who rode behind the Krzyżak and shouted: “Come here!”
But meanwhile Macko rode up, with a face uneasy and menacing. He too understood clearly that Zbyszko had acted like a madman and that ruinous consequences might result from this affair, but nevertheless he was ready for a fight.
The entire retinue of the unknown knight and the Krzyżak numbered barely fifteen men, armed partly with spears, partly with crossbows; therefore two fully armored knights could fight them not without hope of victory. Macko also thought that if a court trial threatened them afterward, perhaps it would be better to avoid it by riding through these men and then hiding somewhere until the storm passed. So his face immediately tightened like the muzzle of a wolf ready to bite, and forcing his horse between Zbyszko and the unknown man, he began to ask, at the same time taking hold of his sword: “Who are you? What is your authority?”
“My authority is from this,” replied the stranger, “that the king commanded me to watch over the safety of the region, and my name is Powała z Taczewa.”
At these words, Macko and Zbyszko looked at the knight, and then they sheathed their half-drawn weapons and lowered their heads. It was not fear that overcame them, but they bowed their heads before the famous and well-known name, for Powała z Taczewa, a nobleman of excellent lineage and a powerful lord possessing numerous lands near Radom, was at the same time one of the most famous knights in the kingdom. Minstrels sang of him in songs as a model of honor and valor, praising his name equally with those of Zawisza z Garbowa, Farurej, Skarbek of Góra, Dobek of Oleśnica, Jaś Namszan, Mikołaj of Moskorzów, and Zyndram of Maszkowice. At this moment he moreover represented in a way the king’s person, so to attack him meant as much as to put one’s head under the executioner’s axe.
Macko, having recovered, spoke in a voice full of respect: “Honor and homage to you, sir, to your fame and valor.”
“Homage to you as well, sir,” replied Powała, “though I would rather have made your acquaintance in less grave circumstances.”
“Why so?” asked Macko.
And Powała turned to Zbyszko: “What have you done, young lad, for the best? On a public highway, under the king’s very nose, you attacked an envoy! Do you know what awaits you for that?”
“He attacked an envoy because he is young and foolish, so an act comes easier to him than reflection,” said Macko. “But you will not judge him harshly when I tell the whole story.”
“It is not I who will judge him. My duty is only to put him in chains.”
“How so?” Macko said, again casting a gloomy look over the whole group of men.
“By the king’s command.”
After these words, silence fell.