Though Głowacz was eager to reach Zgorzelice, he could not travel as fast as he wished. The roads had become extremely difficult. After a harsh winter of severe frosts and snows so deep they buried entire villages, great thaws had set in. February, despite its name, was not at all fierce. First came thick, impenetrable fogs, then almost torrential rains that melted the white drifts before one’s eyes. In the intervals between downpours, a wind blew such as usually blows in March—gusty, sudden, driving the swollen clouds across the sky or scattering them. On earth it howled through the thickets, roared through the forests, and devoured the snows beneath which, not long before, branches and boughs had slumbered in the quiet winter sleep.
Soon the forests turned black. Water spread wide across the meadows, ruffled by the wind. Rivers and streams swelled. Only the fishermen rejoiced at such an abundance of moisture; everyone else, kept as if on a leash, fretted in their homes and cottages. In many places, the only way from village to village was by boat. True, there was no shortage of dikes or causeways built through the swamps and forests from logs and round timbers. But now the dikes had softened. The logs in low-lying areas had sunk into the sodden mire, making passage dangerous or even impossible. It was especially hard for Czech to make progress in the lake-rich region of Greater Poland. There the spring thaws were always worse than elsewhere, making the roads especially difficult for horsemen.
He often had to stop and wait for entire weeks, either in small towns or in villages with the local lords. They received him and his men hospitably, as was the custom, eager to hear tales of the Krzyżaks and paying with bread and salt for the news. So spring was already well underway, and most of March had gone by the time he neared Zgorzelice and Bogdaniec.
His heart raced at the thought of seeing his lady soon. Though he knew he could never have her, any more than he could pluck a star from the sky, he still worshipped and loved her with all his soul. Nevertheless, he decided to ride first to Macko. For one thing, he had been sent to him; for another, he was leading men who were to remain in Bogdaniec.
After killing Rotgier, Zbyszko had taken his retinue. According to the Order’s rules, it consisted of ten horses and ten men. Two of them had taken the body to Szczytno. The rest—knowing how eagerly old Macko sought settlers—Zbyszko sent with Głowacz as a gift for his uncle.
Czech arrived at Bogdaniec but did not find Macko at home. He was told that Macko had gone to the forest with dogs and a crossbow, but would return before nightfall. When he did return and learned that a considerable retinue was staying at his house, he quickened his pace to greet the arrivals and offer them hospitality. At first he did not recognize Głowacz. When the man gave his name, Macko was struck with terrible fear. He threw his crossbow and cap to the ground and shouted:
“For the love of God! They’ve killed him! Speak, tell me what you know!”
“Not killed,” replied Czech. “He’s in good health.”
At that, Macko felt a bit ashamed and started huffing, then finally breathed deeply.
“Glory to Christ the Lord!” he said. “Where is he, then?”
“He’s gone to Malbork and sent me here with news.”
“And why did he go to Malbork?”
“For his wife.”
“God’s wounds, man! What wife?”
“For Jurand’s daughter. There’ll be enough to talk about all night, but allow me, honorable sir, to catch my breath. I’m terribly weary from traveling; I’ve been riding since before midnight without a stop.”
So Macko paused his questions, mainly because he was struck speechless with amazement. When he had calmed down a bit, he shouted to the servant to add logs to the fire and bring food for Czech. Then he started pacing the room, waving his arms and muttering to himself.
“I can’t believe my ears... Jurand’s daughter... Zbyszko married...”
“Both married and not married,” said Czech.
Then he began to recount what had happened and how. Macko listened greedily, interrupting now and then with questions, for not all of Czech’s tale was clear. Głowacz, for example, did not know exactly when Zbyszko had married, because there had been no wedding feast. But he asserted with certainty that the marriage had taken place and that it had happened through the intervention of the Duchess Anna Danuta herself. It had only become known to people after the arrival of the Krzyżak Rotgier, whom Zbyszko had challenged to a God’s Judgment and fought before the entire Mazovian Court.
“Ah! He fought him?” exclaimed Macko, his eyes flashing with fierce curiosity.
“Well, and what happened?”
“He split the German in two, and God also favored me and the squire.”
Macko began to puff again, this time with satisfaction.
“Well!” he said. “He’s a man not to be laughed at. The last of the Grady, but, so help me God, not a mean one. Indeed! And then with the Frisians? He was just a stripling then...”
He looked at Czech more carefully once, and then twice, and then said:
“But you’ve turned out well too. And you don’t seem to lie. I can spot a liar through a board. That squire business is nothing, because you say yourself that you didn’t have much to do, but that you shattered that scoundrel’s arm, and before that brought down the aurochs—those are worthy deeds.”
Then he asked suddenly:
“And the spoils? Also worthy?”
“We took armor, horses, and ten men. The young lord sends eight of them to you.”
“What did he do with the other two?”
“He sent them back with the body.”
“Couldn’t the prince have sent his own servants? Those won’t return.”
Czech smiled at that greed—Macko often gave himself away with it.
“The young lord doesn’t need to worry about that now,” he said. “Spychow is a great estate.”
“Great! Well, and what? But it’s not his yet.”
“Whose, then?”
Macko actually stood up.
“Tell me! And yet Jurand!”
“Jurand is in a dungeon with the Krzyżaks, and death hangs over him. God knows if he will live; if he lives, he will return. But even if he lives and returns, Father Kaleb read his will and announced to everyone that the young lord is to be the heir.”
These tidings clearly made a tremendous impression on Macko. They were so mixed—both good and bad—that he could not fully grasp them or organize the feelings that shook him in turn. The news that Zbyszko had married stung him painfully at first, for he loved Jagienka like a real father and had desired with all his might to join Zbyszko with her. But on the other hand, he had already become accustomed to considering that matter lost, and then again Jurandówna brought what Jagienka could not: both the prince’s favor and a dowry many times larger, as she was an only child. Macko already saw Zbyszko in his mind as a princely count, lord of Bogdaniec and Spychow, indeed, in the future even a castellan. The thing was not impossible, for in those days it was said of a poor nobleman: “He had twelve sons: six fell in battle, six became castellans.” Both the nation and the families were on the rise to greatness. Substantial wealth could only help Zbyszko on that path, so Macko’s greed and family pride had reason to rejoice.
Yet the old man did not lack reasons for anxiety. He himself had once ridden to the Krzyżaks to save Zbyszko, and had brought back from that journey an iron shard under his rib. And now Zbyszko had gone to Malbork, as if into a wolf’s throat. Would he find a wife there, or death? “They won’t look kindly on him there!” Macko thought. “He just killed a notable knight of theirs, and before that struck Lichtenstein, and those dog-sons love vengeance.” At this thought, the old knight became greatly troubled. It also occurred to him that Zbyszko, being a quick-tempered fellow, might get into a fight with some Krzyżak there. But that caused less fear. What Macko feared most was that they would seize him. “They seized old Jurand and his daughter; they did not hesitate to seize the prince himself in Złotoryja in their time. Why should they spare Zbyszko?”
Then the question came to his mind: what would happen if the youngster, even if he himself escaped the hands of the Krzyżaks, did not find his wife at all? For the moment, Macko consoled himself with the thought that Spychow would remain to him after her, but that was short-lived comfort. The old man cared greatly about property, but no less about the lineage, about Zbyszko’s children. “If Danushka disappears like a stone in water, and no one knows whether she is alive or dead, Zbyszko won’t be able to marry another—and then the Grady of Bogdaniec will cease to exist. Hey, with Jagienka it would have been different! Moczydoly could be covered neither by a hen’s wing nor a dog’s tail, and that girl would bear offspring every year without fail, like that apple tree in the orchard.”
Thus Macko’s regret became greater than the joy from the new inheritance—and from that regret and anxiety, he began again to question Czech about how it was with that marriage and when it was.
And Czech replied:
“I have already told you, honorable sir, that I do not know when it happened, and I cannot swear to what I suspect.”
“What do you suspect?”
“Well, I never left the young lord’s side during his illness and slept in the same room with him. Only once in the evening they ordered me to go away, and then I saw them come to the lord: Her Grace herself, and with her the Lady Jurandówna, Sir de Lorche, and Father Wyszoniek. I even wondered, because the lady had a wreath on her head, but I thought they were going to give the lord the Sacraments... Maybe it was then... I remember that the lord told me to dress nicely, as for a wedding, but I also thought it was for receiving the Body of Christ.”
“And then what? Did they stay alone?”
“Oh no, they didn’t stay. The lord couldn’t even eat by himself then. And already there were people for the young lady, supposedly from Jurand—and she left at dawn...”
“And Zbyszko hasn’t seen her since?”
“No human eye has seen her.”
A moment of silence followed.
“What do you think?” Macko asked after a while. “Will the Krzyżaks give her back, or won’t they?”
Czech began to shake his head, then waved his hand in discouragement.
“In my opinion,” he said slowly, “she is lost forever.”
“Why?” asked Macko, almost with fear.
“Because if they said they had her, there would be hope. One could complain, or pay a ransom, or rescue her by force. But they say this: We had some recaptured girl and notified Jurand, but he did not acknowledge her, and for our kindness he killed so many of our men that a good skirmish costs no more.”
“So they showed Jurand some girl?”
“They say they showed her. God only knows. Maybe it’s not true, or maybe they showed him a different one. The only truth is that he killed their men, and they are ready to swear that they never kidnapped the Lady Jurandówna. And that is an extremely difficult matter. Even if the Grand Master gave the order, they would answer him that they don’t have her. And who can prove it? Especially since the courtiers in Ciechanow spoke of Jurand’s letter, in which it stands that she is not with the Krzyżaks.”
“And maybe she is not with the Krzyżaks?”
“I beg your grace! If bandits had kidnapped her, it would be for nothing but ransom. Besides, bandits could not write a letter, nor make the seal of the Lord of Spychow, nor send a noble retinue.”
“That is true. But what do the Krzyżaks want with her?”
“And revenge on Jurand’s blood? They prefer revenge to honey and wine, and they have reasons, they do. The Lord of Spychow was terrible to them, and what he did in the end only enraged them further... My lord too, I heard, raised his hand against Lichtenstein, killed Rotgier... God helped me break that scoundrel’s arm. Hey! If you please: there were four of them, curse their mothers, and now hardly one lives, and he old. We have teeth too, your grace.”
A moment of silence followed again.
“You are a shrewd squire,” Macko said at last. “But what do you think they will do with her?”
“Prince Witold—a mighty prince; they say even the German Emperor bows to his waist—and what did they do to his children? Do they not have enough castles? enough dungeons? enough wells? enough ropes and nooses for the neck?”
“By the living God!” cried Macko.
“May God grant they don’t bury the young lord too, even though he went with a princely letter and with Sir de Lorche, who is a powerful lord and kin to princes. Hey, I didn’t want to come here, because there it would be easier to get a fight. But he ordered me. I heard him once say to the old Lord of Spychow: ‘Are you cunning?—he says—because I’ll achieve nothing by cunning, and with them that’s what’s needed. Oh!—he says—Uncle Macko, he would be useful here!’ And for that reason he sent me. But Jurandówna—even you, sir, will not find, because she may already be in the other world—and against death even the greatest cunning will not avail...”