V.
The prince did not object to the duel, for according to the customs of the time he had no power to do so. He only insisted that Rotgier write a letter to the Grand Master and to Siegfried de Loewe stating that he himself had first thrown down the gauntlet to the Masovian knights, and therefore stood to fight against the husband of Jurandówna, who had already challenged him earlier. Krzyżak also excused himself to the Grand Master for appearing without permission, saying that the honor of the Order was at stake, as well as the need to avert the ugly suspicions that could bring shame upon it—suspicions that he, Rotgier, was always ready to wipe out with his own blood. This letter was sent immediately to the border, and from there it was to go on to Malbork by the postal service, which the Krzyżacy had invented and established in their lands many years before anyone else.
Meanwhile, they trampled down the snow in the castle courtyard and sprinkled it with ash so that the fighters' feet would not sink or slip on the smooth surface. The whole castle buzzed with extraordinary commotion. The emotion seized the knights and ladies so strongly that no one slept the night before the battle. They said to one another that a mounted fight with lances, or even with swords, often ended in mere wounds, while a foot fight, especially with terrible axes, was always mortal. Every heart beat for Zbyszko, but the more affection anyone felt for him or for Danusia, the greater their unease as they recalled what was said about the fame and skill of Krzyżak. Many women spent the night in the church, where Zbyszko, too, had confessed before Father Wyszoniek and done penance. Seeing his almost boyish face, they said to each other, "He's just a child! How can they give his young head over to a German axe?" And so they prayed all the more fervently for his aid. But when at dawn he rose and walked through the chapel to put on his armor in the chamber, some courage returned to them, for although Zbyszko's head and face were indeed boyish, his body was extraordinarily tall and powerful, and he seemed to them a strapping fellow able to handle even the strongest man.
The fight was to take place in the castle courtyard, which was surrounded by a gallery.
When the day was fully light, the prince and the duchess came together with their children and sat in the middle between the pillars, where the entire courtyard could best be seen. Beside them took their places the foremost courtiers, noble ladies, and knights. Every corner of the gallery was filled; the servants settled behind the wall formed by the swept snow; some clung to the projecting windowsills and even to the roof. There the common folk muttered among themselves, "May God grant that our man doesn't give in!"
The day was cold, damp, but clear. The air teemed with jackdaws that inhabited the roofs and tops of the towers; startled by the unusual movement, they circled with great flapping of wings over the castle. Despite the cold, the people broke into sweat from emotion, and when the first trumpet sounded, announcing the entry of the combatants, every heart began to beat like a hammer.
They entered from opposite ends of the lists and stopped at the edges. Then every onlooker held their breath, every one thought that soon two souls would fly to the judgment seat of God, and two corpses would remain on the snow—and at that thought the lips and cheeks of the women grew pale and blue, while the eyes of the men were fixed like a rainbow on the opponents, for each wanted to foretell from their stance and arms on which side victory would fall.
Krzyżak was clad in a blue, enamored breastplate, matching thigh-guards, and a helmet with the visor raised, topped by a magnificent peacock crest. Zbyszko's chest, sides, and back were covered by a splendid Milanese suit of armor that he had once captured from the Frisians. On his head he wore a helmet with a brim, closed and without feathers, and on his feet bullhide boots. On their left arms they carried shields with coats of arms: on Krzyżak's shield, a checkered pattern at the top and three lions standing on their hind legs at the bottom; on Zbyszko's, the Blunt Horseshoe. In their right hands they carried broad, terrible axes set on dark oak hafts, longer than a grown man's arm. Their squires accompanied them: Hlawa, whom Zbyszko called Głowacz, and van Krist, both clad in dark iron plate, both also with axes and shields. Van Krist's shield bore a juniper bush, while the Czech's coat of arms resembled the Pomian, except that instead of an axe a short sword was thrust through a bull's head, half-sunk in the eye.
The trumpet sounded a second time; at the third, the opponents were to advance upon each other by agreement. Now only a small space covered with gray ash separated them, and above that space death hovered like an ominous bird. But before the third signal was given, Rotgier approached the pillars where the prince and duchess sat, raised his steel-encased head, and spoke in a voice so loud that it was heard in every corner of the gallery: "I call as witness God, you, Most Honorable Lord, and all the knighthood of this land, that I am not guilty of the blood that will be shed."
At these words, hearts tightened again because Krzyżak was so sure of himself and his victory. But Zbyszko, having a simple soul, turned to his Czech and said, "That Krzyżak's boasting stinks to me; it would be appropriate only after my death, not while I live. And that braggart there has a peacock crest on his helmet, while I vowed first three such, and then as many as the fingers on my hands. God grant it!"
"Sir," Hlawa asked, bending down and scooping up some ash mixed with snow in his hands to keep the axe haft from slipping in his grip, "perhaps Christ will grant that I quickly finish off this Prussian runt; then, if I may not strike Krzyżak himself, may I at least thrust the axe haft between his knees and throw him to the ground?"
"God forbid!" Zbyszko cried vehemently. "You would bring shame on me and yourself!"
Then the trumpet sounded a third time. Hearing it, the squires rushed at each other swiftly and fiercely, while the knights advanced toward each other more slowly and deliberately, as their dignity and gravity required until the first clash.
Few paid attention to the squires, but those experienced men and servants who watched them understood at once what a terrible advantage lay on Hlawa's side. The axe moved more heavily in the German's hand, and the movements of his shield were slower as well. Beneath his shield, his legs could be seen, longer but thinner and less springy than the Czech's powerful limbs, covered by tight-fitting clothes. Hlawa attacked so fiercely that from almost the very first moment van Krist had to retreat. They understood at once that one of these opponents had fallen on the other like a storm, driving, pressing, striking like lightning, while the other, sensing death above him, only defended himself, trying to delay the awful moment as long as possible. And so it was indeed. That braggart, who generally only fought when he could not do otherwise, realized that his reckless and thoughtless words had led him into a fight with a dreadful opponent whom he should have avoided like ruin. So now, feeling that each of those blows could fell an ox, his heart sank completely. He almost forgot that it was not enough to catch blows on the shield, but that he also had to deal them. He saw the flashes of the axe above him and thought each one would be the last. Raising his shield, he involuntarily closed his eyes with a sense of fear and doubt, not knowing if he would open them again. Rarely did he strike a blow himself, without hope of reaching his opponent; he only raised his shield higher and higher over his head, trying to protect it again and again.
Finally he began to tire, and the Czech struck him ever more mightily. Just as huge chips split off from a tall pine under the woodcutter's axe, so under the Czech's blows the plates of the German squire's armor began to crack and fall away.
The upper rim of the shield bent and shattered; the shoulder guard on the right arm fell to the ground together with the cut and bloodied strap. Van Krist's hair stood on end, and mortal terror seized him. He struck once more, twice more with all the strength of his arm against the Czech's shield, but at last, seeing that against his opponent's cruel strength there was no escape and only some extraordinary effort could save him, he suddenly threw himself with all the weight of his armor and body under Hlawa's legs.
Both fell to the ground and struggled, rolling and tumbling in the snow. But the Czech soon got on top; for a moment he still stifled the opponent's desperate movements, then pressed his knee into the iron mail covering his belly and drew a short, three-edged misericorde from behind his belt.
"Spare me!" van Krist whispered softly, raising his eyes to the Czech's.
But instead of answering, the Czech stretched out on top of him to reach his neck more easily with his hands, cut the leather strap of the helmet under the chin, and twice thrust the blade into the wretch's throat, driving the point downward toward the middle of his chest.
Then van Krist's pupils retreated deep into his skull; his hands and feet began to thrash in the snow, as if trying to clean it of ash, but after a moment he stiffened and lay still, only still puffing his lips covered with red foam and bleeding profusely.
The Czech rose, wiped the misericorde on the German's tunic, then picked up his axe, leaned on it, and began to watch the heavier and more stubborn fight between his knight and Brother Rotgier.
Western knights had already grown accustomed to comfort and luxury, while the "lords" of Lesser Poland, Greater Poland, and Masovia still led a rough and hard life, which, even in strangers and enemies, aroused admiration for the strength of their bodies and their endurance of any exertion, whether prolonged or sudden. It now became clear that Zbyszko surpassed Krzyżak in strength of arms and legs no less than his squire surpassed van Krist, but it also became clear that because he was young, he was inferior in knightly training.
To some extent it was fortunate for Zbyszko that he had chosen to fight with axes, since fencing with that kind of weapon was impossible. With short or long swords, which required knowledge of cuts, thrusts, and the ability to parry blows, the German would have had a significant advantage. But even so, both Zbyszko himself and the spectators recognized from his movements and shield work that they had before them an experienced and dangerous man, who evidently was not standing in such a fight for the first time. With each blow of Zbyszko, Rotgier held up his shield and at the moment of impact drew it back a little, so that even the greatest swing lost its force and could not cut or shatter the smooth surface. At times he retreated, at times he attacked, doing so calmly, but so quickly that his movements could barely be caught by the eye. The prince grew anxious for Zbyszko, and the faces of the men darkened, for it seemed to them that the German was almost deliberately playing with his opponent. Sometimes he did not even hold up the shield, but at the moment when Zbyszko struck, he made a half-turn to the side so that the axe blade cut through empty air. That was the most dangerous move, because Zbyszko could lose his balance and fall, and then his doom would be certain. Seeing this, the Czech, standing over the slain van Krist, also grew fearful and said to himself, "By God, if my lord falls, I'll hit the German in the back of the head with the axe haft, so he'll tumble too."
But Zbyszko did not fall, for having enormous strength in his legs and setting them wide apart, he could support the full weight of his body and momentum on each.
Rotgier noticed this immediately, and the spectators were mistaken in supposing that he underestimated his opponent. On the contrary, after the first blows, when despite all his skill at withdrawing the shield, his hand had almost gone numb under it, he understood that a hard struggle awaited him with this young man and that if he did not knock him down with a good trick, the fight could be long and dangerous. He counted that after cutting into empty air Zbyszko would fall into the snow, and when that did not happen, he began to feel uneasy. From under the steel brim he saw the opponent's clenched nostrils and mouth, and at times his gleaming eyes, and he told himself that his fury should carry him away; that he would lose his head and in his blindness would think more about landing blows than about defense. But he was mistaken in that too. Zbyszko did not know how to dodge blows with a half-turn, but he did not forget about his shield, and while raising his axe, he did not expose himself more than necessary. Evidently his attention redoubled, and having recognized the opponent's experience and skill, he not only did not lose his head, but grew concentrated, became more cautious, and there was a deliberation in his strikes that can only come from cold, not hot, fury.
Rotgier, who had been through many wars and fought many battles, both in large groups and in single combat, knew from experience that there are men born to fight like birds of prey, especially gifted by nature, who seem to guess everything that others achieve through years of training. He soon realized he was dealing with one of these. From the first blows he understood that there was something in this youth—something that is in a hawk, which sees only its prey in its opponent and thinks of nothing else but to seize it with its talons. Despite his own strength, he saw that he did not equal Zbyszko in it, and that if he tired before he could deliver a decisive blow, the fight against this terrible, though less experienced, stripling could become disastrous for him. Having thought this, he resolved to fight with as little effort as possible; he drew his shield closer to himself, neither pressed too hard nor retreated too much, limited his movements, gathered all the strength of his soul and arm for one decisive blow, and waited for the right moment.