Hearing this, all fell into great astonishment, except for Nicholas of Długolas, who said:
“In these effeminate times, there are no longer men like those of my youth, or like those my father told me about. Now if a nobleman can tear a breastplate, draw a crossbow without a crank, or twist an iron knife between his fingers, he calls himself a strongman and praises himself above others. But in olden times, even girls could do such things…”
“I won’t argue that people were stronger in the past,” replied Powala. “But there are sturdy fellows today too. The Lord Jesus didn’t stint on strength in my bones, yet I don’t claim to be the strongest in this kingdom. Have you ever seen Zawisza z Garbowa? He could overpower me.”
“I have. His shoulders are as broad as the shaft of the Kraków bell.”
“And Dobko of Oleśnica? Once at a tournament organized by the Krzyżacy in Torun, he defeated twelve knights, bringing great glory to himself and to our nation…”
“But our own man, a Mazurian, Staszko Ciołek, was stronger, my lord, than you, than Zawisza, and than Dobek. They said that he could take a fresh wooden stake in his fist and squeeze the juice out of it.”
“I can squeeze juice too!” cried Zbyszko.
And before anyone could ask for a demonstration, he jumped to the roadside, tore off a large branch from a tree, and squeezed it by the end in front of the duchess and Danusia so hard that juice began dripping onto the road.
“Oh, Jesus!” cried Ofka z Jarząbkowa at the sight. “Don’t go to war, for it would be a pity if such a one died before marriage…”
“A pity!” repeated Macko, suddenly frowning.
But Nicholas of Długolas began to laugh, and the duchess with him. Others, however, loudly praised Zbyszko’s strength. Since in those times a strong arm was valued above all other qualities, the maidens called out to Danusia: “Rejoice!” She was glad, though she didn’t fully understand what that squeezed piece of wood could bring her. Zbyszko, having completely forgotten about the Krzyżak, looked so proudly that Nicholas of Długolas, wanting to bring him to reason, said:
“It’s in vain for you to boast of strength, for there are better than you. I didn’t see this myself, but my father witnessed something even better at the court of Charles, Roman Emperor. King Casimir paid him a visit with many courtiers, among whom was that famous strongman Staszko Ciołek, son of Voivode Andrzej. Once the emperor began to boast that he had among his men a certain Czech who could hug a bear around the middle and strangle it on the spot. So they staged a spectacle, and the Czech strangled two bears in succession. Our king was greatly troubled, lest he leave in shame, and said: ‘But my Ciołek will not let himself be disgraced.’ They arranged that in three days they would wrestle. Many ladies and knights gathered, and after three days the Czech and Ciołek grappled on the castle courtyard. But it didn’t last long. As soon as they embraced, Ciołek broke the Czech’s spine, crushed all his ribs, and then released him dead, to the great glory of the king. From then on he was called Łomignat. Once he carried a great bell up to the tower all by himself, which twenty townsmen couldn’t move from the spot.”
“And how old was he?” asked Zbyszko.
“He was young.”
Meanwhile Powala of Taczew, riding on the right side next to the duchess, finally leaned to her ear and told her the whole truth about the seriousness of the incident. At the same time he asked her to support him when he interceded for Zbyszko, who might face severe punishment for his deed. The duchess, who liked Zbyszko, received this news with sadness and became very anxious.
“The Bishop of Kraków is well disposed toward me,” said Powala, “so perhaps I can beg him, and the queen too. But the more intercessors, the better for the lad.”
“As long as the queen speaks for him, not a hair on his head will be harmed,” said the duchess, “for the king greatly honors her for her holiness and her dowry. But there is in Kraków the king’s beloved sister, Princess Ziemowitowa—go to her. I too will do what I can, but she is his own sister, while I am only a cousin.”
“The king loves you too, gracious lady.”
“Oh, not so,” replied the duchess with some sadness. “For me a link, for her the whole chain; for me a fox, for her a sable. The king loves no one among his kin as much as Alexandra. Not a day passes that she leaves with empty hands.”
Talking thus, they approached Kraków. The highway, busy from Tyniec onward, became even more crowded. They encountered landowners heading to the city at the head of their servants, sometimes in armor, sometimes in summer clothes and straw hats. Some rode on horseback, others in wagons, with their wives and daughters who wanted to see the long-announced jousts. In places, the entire highway was clogged with merchants’ carts, which were not allowed to bypass Kraków so as not to deprive the city of numerous tolls. On these carts they carried salt, wax, grain, fish, cattle hides, hemp, and wood. Others came from the city loaded with cloth, barrels of beer, and various urban goods.
Kraków was now clearly visible: the royal, noble, and burgher gardens surrounding the city on all sides, and beyond them the walls and church towers. The closer they got, the greater the bustle. Near the stalls it was hard to ride through the general commotion.
“What a city! There’s surely no other like it in the world,” said Macko.
“Always like a fair,” replied one of the minstrels. “Were you here long ago, sir?”
“Long ago. And I marvel as if I were seeing it for the first time, for we come from wild lands.”
“They say Kraków has grown enormously since King Jagiello.”
“That was true. Since the Grand Duke of Lithuania ascended the throne, the immense lands of Lithuania and Rus were opened to Kraków’s trade. As a result, the city grew day by day in population, wealth, and buildings, and became one of the most significant in the world…”
“The Krzyżacy cities are also fine,” spoke up the fat minstrel again.
“If only one could get to them,” answered Macko. “That would be a worthy spoil!”
But Powala was thinking of something else: young Zbyszko, who had only erred through foolish hot-headedness, was walking straight into the wolf’s jaws. The lord of Taczew, fierce and relentless in war, had a gentle heart nonetheless. Since he understood better than others what awaited the culprit, he was overcome with pity for him.
“I keep debating,” he said again to the duchess, “whether to tell the king what happened or not. If the Krzyżak doesn’t complain, there will be no case at all. But if he does intend to complain, perhaps it would be better to tell everything first, so that the king does not flare up in sudden anger…”
“A Krzyżak will destroy someone if he can,” replied the duchess. “But first I will tell the youth to join our court. Perhaps the king will not punish one of our courtiers so harshly…”
Having said this, she called Zbyszko. When he learned what it was about, he jumped off his horse, kissed her feet, and with the greatest joy agreed to be her courtier. He did so not so much for greater safety, but because in this way he could stay close to Danusia.
Meanwhile Powala asked Macko: “And where will you stay?”
“At an inn.”
“Inns have had no room for a long time.”
“Then we’ll go to a merchant acquaintance, Amylej. Maybe he’ll put us up for the night…”
“I’ll tell you this: come as my guests. Your nephew could stay at the castle with the duchess’s courtiers, but it would be better for him not to be within the king’s reach. What is done in the first anger will not be done in the second. Besides, you’ll likely need to distribute your goods, wagons, and servants, and that takes time. You know—you’ll be well and safe with me.”
Powala led Macko and Zbyszko to his house on Saint Anne’s Street. He ordered a spacious room to be given to them, commended them to his squires, and went to the castle. He returned for supper quite late at night. Along with him came several of his friends. Partaking liberally of wine and meat, they feasted merrily; only the host himself seemed somewhat troubled. When the guests finally dispersed to their homes, he said to Macko: “I spoke with a canon, learned in scripture and law, who says that insulting an envoy is a capital offense. So pray to God that the Krzyżak does not complain…”
Hearing this, both knights, though they had drunk somewhat too much at the feast, went to rest with heavy hearts. Macko could not even fall asleep. After a while, when they had lain down, he spoke to his nephew:
“Zbyszko?”
“What?”
“Having considered everything, I still think they’ll cut off your head.”
“You think so?” asked Zbyszko in a sleepy voice. Then he turned to the wall and fell fast asleep, for he was tired from the journey.
The next day both yeomen from Bogdaniec, together with Powala, went to morning mass at the cathedral. They went both for worship and to see the court and guests who were gathering at the castle. On the way Powala met many acquaintances, among them many knights famous in the country and abroad. Young Zbyszko looked at them with admiration, promising himself that if his affair with Lichtenstein came off unscathed, he would strive to equal them in valor and all virtues. One of these knights, Toporczyk, a relative of the castellan of Kraków, told them the news of Wojciech Jastrzębiec’s return from Rome. Jastrzębiec, a scholastic, had gone to Pope Boniface IX with a royal letter inviting him to Kraków for a baptism. Boniface accepted the invitation. Although he expressed doubt whether he could come in person, he authorized the envoy to hold the newborn child at the font in his name. At the same time, as a token of his special love for both kingdoms, he asked that the child be named Boniface or Bonifacia.
They also spoke of the imminent arrival of the Hungarian king, Sigismund, and expected him for certain. Sigismund always came, invited or not, whenever there was an opportunity for visits, feasts, and jousts. He participated with enthusiasm, wanting to become famous throughout the world as a ruler, a singer, and one of the foremost knights. Powala, Zawisza z Garbowa, Dobko of Oleśnica, Naszan, and other men of similar caliber recalled with a smile how, during Sigismund’s previous visits, King Władysław had secretly asked them not to press too hard in the tournament and to spare the “Hungarian guest,” whose well-known vanity was so great that failure brought tears to his eyes.
But the greatest interest among the knights was aroused by Witold’s affairs. They told wonders about the magnificence of that cradle, cast from pure silver, which the Lithuanian princes and boyars brought as a gift from Witold and his wife Anna. As usual before mass, groups of people formed, exchanging news. In one of them, Macko, having heard about the cradle, spoke up and described the value of the gift. But even more he told about Witold’s planned expedition against the Tatars, for he was plied with questions about it. The expedition was almost ready. Huge armies had already moved east into Rus. If it succeeded, it would extend King Jagiello’s dominion over nearly half the world, all the way to the unknown depths of Asia, to the borders of Persia and the shores of the Aral. Macko, who had previously been close to Witold’s person and knew his intentions, related them accurately and so eloquently that before the bell rang for mass, a circle of curious listeners had formed around him in front of the cathedral steps.
It was, he said, simply a crusade. Witold himself, though titled Grand Duke, governed Lithuania on behalf of Jagiello and was only a governor. So the credit would fall to the king. And what glory it would be for the newly baptized Lithuania and for the power of Poland, when the combined armies carried the cross into regions where, if they mentioned the Savior’s name, it was only to blaspheme it, and where no Polish or Lithuanian foot had yet trod! The exiled Tokhtamysh, once the Polish and Lithuanian armies reinstalled him on the lost Kipchak throne, would acknowledge himself a “son” of King Władysław and, as he promised, bow to the cross together with all the Golden Horde.
They listened intently to these words. But many did not fully understand what it was about—whom Witold was to help, against whom he was to fight. So some began to ask: “Tell us clearly, who is the war with?”
“With whom? With Timur the Lame,” replied Macko.
A moment of silence fell. The names of the Golden, Blue, Azov, and various other Hordes had indeed echoed in the ears of Western knights more than once. But Tatar affairs and civil wars among the individual Hordes were not well known to them. On the other hand, you could not find a single man in contemporary Europe who had not heard of the terrible Timur the Lame, or Tamerlane. His name was repeated with no less fear than Attila’s in days past. He was, after all, the “lord of the world” and “lord of the ages,” ruler of twenty-seven conquered states, ruler of Muscovite Rus, ruler of Siberia, of China as far as India, of Baghdad, Isfahan, Aleppo, Damascus. His shadow fell across the Arabian sands onto Egypt, and across the Bosporus onto the Greek Empire. He was the destroyer of the human race, the monstrous builder of pyramids from human skulls, the victor in every battle, undefeated in any— “lord of souls and bodies.”