IV.
For Macko and Zbyszko, who had previously served under Witold and had seen plenty of Lithuanian and Samogitian warriors, the sight of the camp held nothing new. But the Czech watched with curiosity, pondering what one could expect from such men in battle, comparing them to Polish and German knights. The camp stood in a lowland surrounded by forest and marshes, thus completely safe from attack, as no other army could cross those treacherous wetlands. The lowland itself, where the huts stood, was also boggy and muddy, but they had chopped fir and pine branches, covering it so thickly that they rested as if on the driest ground. For Kniaź Skirwoiłło, they had hastily put together something like a Numa, a Lithuanian hut made of earth and unhewn logs; for the more notable men, several dozen huts were woven from branches, while the common warriors sat around fires in the open, protected against weather and rain only by the sheepskins and hides they wore on their bare bodies. No one in the camp was sleeping yet, because after the last defeat the men had nothing to do and slept during the day. Some sat or lay around bright fires fed with dry brush or juniper branches, others dug in the dying embers of hearths already covered with ash, from which spread the smell of roasted turnips—the usual food of Lithuanians—and the stench of scorched meat. Between the fires lay piles of weapons stacked close so that each man could easily grab his own. Hlawa looked curiously at the spears with narrow, long heads forged from hardened iron, at flails made of young oaks studded with flint or nails, at axes with short handles—similar to Polish battle-axes, used by horsemen—and at axes with handles almost as long as bardiches, used by foot soldiers. Among them were also some made of copper, from ancient times when iron was still little used in these remote regions. Some swords were also of copper, but most were of good steel supplied from Nowogród. The Czech picked up spears, swords, axes, pitchy bows hardened in fire, and examined their quality in the firelight. There were not many horses by the fires, as the herds grazed far off in the forests and meadows under the watch of alert horse guards, but because the more prominent boyars wanted their mounts at hand, several dozen were in the camp, fed by their slaves. Hlawa was amazed by the shaggy bodies of these horses—extraordinarily small, with thick necks and in general so odd that western knights considered them entirely different forest animals, more like unicorns than real horses.
"Big war horses are no use here," said the experienced Macko, recalling his earlier service under Witold. "A big one will immediately sink in the marshes, while this little runt will go anywhere, almost like a man."
"But in the field," replied the Czech, "these won't stand up to the big German horses."
"No, they won't. But on the other hand, a German won't outrun a Samogitian, nor catch him, because these are just as swift, or swifter than Tatar horses."
"Still, it surprises me, because I've seen Tatar prisoners brought by the knight Zych ze Zgorzelic—they were small men that any horse could carry, while these people are tall."
Indeed, the people were well-built. In the firelight, under hides and sheepskins, one could see broad chests and strong shoulders. Man after man was lean but big-boned and tall, generally exceeding the inhabitants of other Lithuanian lands, because they lived on better, richer soil where the famines that occasionally plagued Lithuania were less frequent. But they surpassed the Lithuanians in savagery. In Vilnius there was a grand-ducal court; priests from east and west gathered there, embassies came, foreign merchants flowed in, so the inhabitants of the city and its surroundings became somewhat accustomed to the foreign. Here a foreigner appeared only in the guise of a Teutonic Knight or a Knight of Swords, bringing fire, captivity, and baptism in blood to the deep forest settlements. So everything was coarser, harsher, closer to ancient times, more hostile to novelties: older customs, older ways of war, and paganism more stubborn because the worship of the Cross was taught not by a gentle herald of Good News with an apostle's love, but by an armed German monk with the soul of an executioner.
Skirwoiłło and the more notable kniazes and boyars were already Christians, following the example of Jagiello and Witold. Others, even the simplest and wildest warriors, bore in their hearts a dull feeling that death and the end were coming for the old world, for their old faith. And they were ready to bow their heads before the Cross, provided those German, hated hands did not raise it. "We ask for baptism!" they cried to all princes and nations. "But remember, we are people, not animals that can be given away, bought, and sold." Meanwhile, as the old faith died, like a fire to which no one adds wood, and their hearts turned from the new faith precisely because it was forced on them by German violence, a void arose in their souls—restlessness, longing for the past, and deep sadness. The Czech, who since childhood had been used to the cheerful hum of soldiers, songs, and lively music, saw for the first time a camp so quiet and gloomy. Only here and there, by fires farther from Skirwoiłło's Numa, one could hear the sound of a pipe or whistle, or the words of a quiet song sung by a Burtinikas. The warriors listened with bowed heads and eyes fixed on the embers. Some sat crouched by the fire, elbows on knees, faces hidden in their hands, covered with hides, like forest beasts of prey.
But when they raised their heads toward the passing knights, the firelight revealed gentle faces and blue eyes—not at all fierce or predatory, but rather looking like sad and wronged children. On the edges of the camp, the wounded who had been carried from the last battle lay on moss. Healers, the so-called labdarises and seitonians, muttered spells over them or dressed their wounds, applying healing herbs, and the wounded lay in silence, patiently enduring pain and suffering.
From the depths of the forest, from the side of the clearings and meadows, came the whistling of horse guards. Occasionally the wind rose, veiling the camp with smoke and filling the dark forest with rustling. But the night grew later, the fires began to fade and go out, and an even deeper silence fell, heightening the impression of sadness and, as it were, dejection.
Zbyszko gave orders to the men he led, with whom he could easily speak because among them was a handful of men from Płock. Then he turned to his squire and said:
"You've seen enough; now it's time to return to the tent."
"I've seen plenty," replied the squire, "but I'm not very pleased with what I saw, because you can tell right away these are beaten men."
"Twice: four days ago at the castle, and the day before yesterday at the crossing. And now Skirwoiłło wants to go there a third time, to suffer a third defeat."
"How can he not understand that with such an army he can't do anything against the Teutonic Knights? Sir Macko already told me, and now I can see for myself that these must be poor soldiers."
"And there you're wrong, because these are brave men, as few in the world. But they fight in a disorderly mob, while the Teutonic Knights fight in formation. If they can break the formation, a Samogitian will kill a Teutonic Knight more often than the Teutonic Knight kills the Samogitian. But the Teutonic Knights know that and close ranks so tightly they stand like a wall."
"And as for besieging castles, I suppose there's no point thinking about that," said the Czech.
"They have no siege equipment," replied Zbyszko. "Kniaź Witold has the equipment, and until he arrives with his forces, we won't take any castle, except by chance or treachery."
Talking thus, they reached the tent, before which burned a large fire kept up by the servants, with meat prepared by them smoking over it. The tent was cold and damp, so both knights, along with Hlawa, lay down on skins before the fire.
After they had eaten, they tried to sleep, but could not. Macko tossed and turned, and then, seeing Zbyszko sitting before the flames with his arms around his knees, asked:
"Listen, why did you advise going far away to Ragneta, rather than here near Gotteswerder? What's your reason?"
"Because something in my soul tells me Danuśka is in Ragneta, and they are less guarded there than here."
"We didn't have time to talk it through—I was tired, and you were gathering men in the forest after the defeat. But now I'll say what's on my mind: do you still want to look for that girl?"
"She's not a girl, she's my wife," replied Zbyszko.
Silence fell, because Macko well understood there was no answer to that. If Danuśka were still Danuta Jurandówna, the old knight would undoubtedly have advised his nephew to abandon her, but in the face of the sacrament, seeking her became a simple duty. And Macko would not even have asked such a question if he had not been absent from both the wedding and the feast, so he still unconsciously considered Jurandówna a girl.
"Yes, yes," he said after a moment. "But I've had time to ask about what I wanted to know these last two days, and you told me you know nothing."
"Because I know nothing except that God's wrath must be upon me."
Then Hlawa raised himself on his bearskin, sat up, and, pricking up his ears, began to listen intently and curiously.
And Macko said:
"Before sleep overcomes you, tell me: what did you see, what did you do, and what did you accomplish in Malbork?"
Zbyszko brushed aside his hair, which, uncut for a long time, fell over his brows, sat a moment in silence, then began to speak:
"Would to God I knew as much about my Danuśka as I know about Malbork. You ask what I saw there? I saw the immense power of the Teutonic Knights, supported by all kings and all nations, a power I doubt anyone in the world can match. I saw a castle such as even the Roman Emperor himself may not have. I saw untold treasures, armor, swarms of armed monks, knights, and servants—and relics as if at the Holy Father's in Rome. And I tell you, my very soul stiffened within me, because I thought: who can dare to attack them? Who can resist them? Whom will their strength not break?"
"Us! To the devil with them!" cried Hlawa, unable to restrain himself.
Macko found Zbyszko's words strange, and though he wanted to learn all the young man's adventures, he interrupted and said:
"Have you forgotten Vilnius? How many times did we clash with them shield to shield and head to head? Have you forgotten how hard they had it against us, and how they complained of our stubbornness—that it wasn't enough to sweat the horse and break the lance, but you had to take the enemy's life or give your own! There were guests there who challenged us—and all left in disgrace. What's made you so soft?"
"I haven't gone soft. I fought in Malbork too, and they even jousted for real. But you don't know all their power."
But the old man grew angry.
"And do you know all the might of Poland? Have you seen all the banners together? You haven't. And their power stands on injustice and treachery, because they don't have an inch of land that's rightfully theirs."
"Our princes took them in as one takes in a poor man, and gave them gifts, and they, grown strong, bit the hand that fed them, like worthless mad dogs. They seized the land, took cities by treachery, and that's their power! But even if all the kings of the world came to their aid, the day of judgment and vengeance will come."
"Since you told me to speak of what I saw, and now you're angry, I'd rather stop," said Zbyszko.
Macko snorted angrily for a while, but then calmed down and said:
"How many times does it happen! A pine tree stands in the forest, tall as a tower, you'd think it would stand forever, but you strike it well with an axe, and it rings hollow—rotten inside. That's the power of the Teutonic Knights! But I told you to say what you accomplished. You jousted for real, you say?"
"Yes. They received me haughtily and ungratefully at first, because they already knew I had fought Rotgier. Perhaps something bad would have happened to me, but I came with a letter from the prince, and Lord Lorche, whom they respect, protected me from their malice. But later came feasts and jousts, in which the Lord Jesus blessed me. You heard that Brother Ulrich, the Master's brother, took a liking to me and gave me a written order from the Master himself to have Danuśka released."
"People told us," said Macko, "that his girth broke at the saddle, and you saw it and didn't want to strike him."
"Yes, I raised my lance, and from that moment he liked me. Ah, dear God! They gave me harsh letters, with which I could travel from castle to castle and search. I thought my misery and worry were over—and now, here I sit, in a wild land, with no counsel, in distress and sadness, and every day it gets worse and I miss her more..."
He fell silent for a moment, then threw a chip of wood into the fire with all his might, so that sparks flew from the burning brands, and said:
"Because if the poor thing is moaning somewhere in a castle, thinking I've forgotten her, may sudden death strike me!"
And so much impatience and pain boiled within him that he began again to throw chips into the fire, as if carried away by sudden blind grief. The others were very astonished, for they had not thought he loved Danuśka so much.
"Calm yourself!" cried Macko. "What about that safe conduct? Didn't the Komturs obey the Master's orders?"
Zbyszko's eyes flashed with tears, but he calmed down a little and said:
"They opened the locks of castles and prisons. I was everywhere; I searched! Then this war broke out, and in Gierdawy, Vogt von Hiedeck told me that martial law was different and that safe conducts issued in peacetime meant nothing. I challenged him immediately, but he didn't show up, and ordered me thrown out of the castle."
"And in others?" asked Macko.
"The same everywhere. In Königsberg, the Komtur, who is the superior of the Vogt of Gierdawy, wouldn't even read the Master's letter, saying that war is war, and ordered me to take my head away while it was still whole. I asked elsewhere—everywhere the same."
"Now I understand," said the old knight. "Seeing you could accomplish nothing, you preferred to come here, where at least you might get revenge."
"Yes," replied Zbyszko. "I also thought we'd capture prisoners and maybe take a few castles, but they don't know how to take castles."
"Hey, when Kniaź Witold himself comes, it'll be different."
"God grant it!"
"He will come. I heard at the Mazovian court that he will come, and perhaps the king with him, with all the might of Poland."
But their further conversation was interrupted by Skirwoiłło, who unexpectedly emerged from the shadows and said:
"We march out."
Hearing this, the knights jumped to their feet. Skirwoiłło brought his huge head close to their faces and said in a lowered voice:
"There is news. Reinforcements are coming to New Kaunas. Two knights are leading servants, cattle, and provisions. We will ambush them."
"So we'll cross the Neman?" asked Zbyszko.
"Yes. I know a ford."
"And do they know about the reinforcements in the castle?"
"They know, and they will come out to meet them, but you will strike at those."
And he began to explain where they should lay an ambush so as to fall unexpectedly on those who would hurry from the castle. He wanted to fight two battles at once and avenge the recent defeats, which might succeed all the more easily because, after their recent victory, the enemy felt completely safe. So he showed them the place and time they were to reach, and left the rest to their courage and ingenuity. They rejoiced in their hearts, for they recognized at once that they were speaking with an experienced and capable warrior. When he finished, he ordered them to follow him and returned to his Numa, where the kniazes and centurion boyars were already waiting. There he repeated the orders, gave new ones, and finally, raising to his lips a pipe carved from wolf bone, he emitted a loud, piercing whistle that was heard from one end of the camp to the other.
At that sound, something stirred by the dying fires. Here and there sparks began to fly, then little flames flared up, growing and strengthening with each moment, and in their light the wild figures of warriors could be seen gathering around the piles of weapons. The forest trembled and awakened. After a while, cries of horse guards driving the herds toward the camp began to sound from the depths.