VII.

Zbyszko ordered him placed on one of the captured wagons, loaded with new wheels and axles meant for the relief expedition heading to the castle. He switched to another horse, and he and Macko set off together in further pursuit of the fleeing Krzyżacy. The chase wasn't difficult—German horses were poor runners, especially on the trail softened by spring rains. Macko, riding a swift, light mare taken from the slain lord of Łękawica, passed nearly all the Samogitians within a few furlongs. Soon he caught up with the first rider. According to knightly custom, he called on him to surrender or turn and fight. But the man, pretending deafness, even threw away his shield to lighten his horse, and crouching low, dug in his spurs. The old knight struck him brutally between the shoulder blades with his broad axe and knocked him from the saddle.

So he avenged himself on the fugitives for that treacherous arrow shot he'd once received. They fled before him like a herd of deer, their hearts filled with unbearable terror, their souls bent not on battle or defense but only on escape from that fearsome man.

A few plunged into the forest, but one got stuck by a stream, and the Samogitians strangled him with a rope. The remaining groups scattered into the thickets, where wild hunting began at once—full of screams, cries, and shouts. The deep woods rang with them for a long time until everyone was caught. Then the old knight of Bogdańca, along with Zbyszko and Czech, returned to the first battlefield, where the slaughtered foot soldiers lay. Their bodies had already been stripped naked, and some were horribly mutilated by the vengeful Samogitians. The victory was considerable, and the people were drunk with joy. After Skirwoiłło's recent defeat right under Gottswerder, discouragement had begun to grip Samogitian hearts, especially since the reinforcements promised by Witold weren't arriving as quickly as expected. But now hope and fervor blazed up anew, like flame when you throw fresh wood on coals.

There were too many dead—both Samogitians and Krzyżacy—to bury them all. But Zbyszko ordered pits dug with spears for the two lords of Łękawica who had mainly contributed to the victory. They buried them under pines, on whose bark he carved crosses with his sword. Then, having ordered Czech to guard Sir de Lorche, who was still unconscious, Zbyszko moved his men and marched quickly along the same trail toward Skirwoiłło, ready to give him effective help if needed.

After a long march, he came upon an empty battlefield, covered like the previous one with corpses of Samogitians and Krzyżacy. Zbyszko easily understood that the fearsome Skirwoiłło must also have won a significant victory—had he been routed, they would have met Krzyżacy marching toward the castle. But the victory must have been bloody, for beyond the main field, the bodies of the fallen lay thick. Experienced Macko deduced from this that some of the Krzyżacy had managed to escape the slaughter.

Whether Skirwoiłło pursued them or not was hard to guess, as the tracks were confused and overlapping. But Macko also concluded that the battle had taken place quite some time ago, perhaps earlier than Zbyszko's, because the corpses were blackened and bloated, and some had already been gnawed by wolves that fled into the thickets at the approach of armed men.

In light of this, Zbyszko decided not to wait for Skirwoiłło and to return to the old, safe camp. Arriving late at night, he found the Samogitian leader already there, having marched in a bit earlier. His usually somber face was lit this time with sinister joy. He immediately began asking about the battle, and upon learning of the victory, he spoke in a voice like a raven's croak:

"I'm glad of you and glad of myself. Reinforcements won't come soon, and if the grand prince arrives, he'll be glad too, because the castle will be ours."

"Who did you take prisoner?" asked Zbyszko.

"Only small fry, no big fish. There was one, there were two, but they got away. Toothsome pike! They cut down some men and fled."

"God granted me one," replied the young man. "A powerful knight and a noble one, though a secular guest."

The fearsome Samogitian wrapped his arms around his own neck, then made a gesture with his right hand as if showing a rope going up from his neck.

"That'll be his fate!" he said. "Same as the others... same!"

At that, Zbyszko furrowed his brow.

"Listen, Skirwoiłło," he said. "It won't be his fate, not that or anything else, because he's my prisoner and my friend. Prince Janusz knighted us together, and I won't let you touch a single finger on him."

"You won't?"

"I won't."

They stared into each other's eyes, brows furrowed, and Skirwoiłło's face contracted, becoming like the head of a bird of prey. It seemed they would both explode. But Zbyszko, not wanting a quarrel with the old chieftain he valued and respected, and with his heart still stirred by the day's events, suddenly grabbed him by the neck, pressed him to his chest, and shouted:

"Would you want to take him from me, and with him my last hope? Why do you wrong me?"

Skirwoiłło didn't resist the embrace, and finally, pulling his head free from Zbyszko's arms, he began to glare at him from under his brows and snort.

"Well," he said after a moment of silence, "tomorrow I'll have my prisoners hanged. But if you need any of them, I'll give him to you too."

Then they embraced a second time and parted on good terms, much to Macko's satisfaction, who said:

"With anger, you evidently can't get anywhere with him, but with kindness you can mold him like wax."

"That's just the way these people are," replied Zbyszko. "Only the Krzyżacy don't know it."

Saying this, he ordered Sir de Lorche brought before the fire. The knight had been resting in a hut. After a moment, Czech led him in—disarmed, without a helmet, wearing only a leather tunic on which the marks of his armor were pressed, and a red cap on his head. De Lorche already knew from his squire whose prisoner he was, but precisely because of that, he came cold, proud, with a face that showed stubbornness and contempt in the firelight.

"Thank God," Zbyszko told him, "that He put you into my hands, for nothing threatens you from me."

He extended his hand to him in friendship, but de Lorche didn't move.

"I don't offer my hand to knights who have dishonored knightly honor by fighting with Saracens against Christians."

One of the Masurians present translated his words, whose meaning Zbyszko had already guessed. In the first moment, his blood boiled like scalding water.

"Fool!" he shouted, involuntarily grabbing the hilt of his misericorde.

De Lorche lifted his head.

"Kill me," he said. "I know you don't spare prisoners."

"And do you spare them?" cried the Masurian, unable to hear such words calmly. "Didn't you hang all those you captured in the previous battle on the island shore? That's why Skirwoiłło hangs yours too."

"So it was done," replied de Lorche. "But they were pagans."

Yet there was a certain shame in his answer, and it wasn't hard to guess that in his heart he didn't approve of such an act.

Meanwhile, Zbyszko calmed down and said with calm dignity:

"De Lorche, we received our belts and spurs from the same hands. You know me, and you know that knightly honor is dearer to me than life or happiness. So listen to what I now swear to you on Saint George: many of these people were baptized long ago, and those who aren't yet Christians stretch their hands toward the cross as if toward salvation. But do you know who hinders them, prevents their salvation, and defends against baptism?"

The Masurian quickly translated Zbyszko's words, so de Lorche looked questioningly at the young man's face.

He said:

"The Krzyżacy."

"Impossible!" cried the Geldrian knight.

"By the lance and spurs of Saint George, the Krzyżacy! Because if the cross ruled here, they'd lose their pretext for invasions, for ruling this land, and for oppressing these unfortunate people. You've gotten to know them, de Lorche, and you know best whether their deeds are just."

"But I thought they atoned for their sins by fighting pagans and leading them to baptism."

"They baptize with sword and blood, not with the water of salvation. Just read this letter, and you'll immediately see whether you aren't serving wrongdoers, predators, and infernal elders against faith and Christian love."

Saying this, he handed him the Samogitians' letter to kings and princes, which had become widely known. De Lorche took it and began to scan it by the firelight.

He read it quickly, for the difficult art of reading wasn't foreign to him, and then he marvelled greatly and said:

"Is all this true?"

"So help me God and you, He who sees best that I serve not only my own cause here but also justice."

De Lorche was silent for a moment, then said:

"I am your prisoner."

"Give me your hand," replied Zbyszko. "You are my brother, not my prisoner."

So they clasped right hands and sat down to a shared supper that Czech had ordered the servants to prepare. During the meal, de Lorche learned with no less astonishment that despite the letters, Zbyszko hadn't recovered Danusia, and that the komturs had denied the validity of the safe-conducts because war had broken out.

"Now I understand why you're here," he said to Zbyszko. "And I thank God that He gave me to you as a prisoner, because I think that in exchange for me, the Order's knights will give you whomever you want. Otherwise, there would be a great outcry in the West, since I come from a powerful family..."

Suddenly he struck himself on the cap with his hand and cried out:

"By all the relics of Aachen! Arnold von Baden and old Zygfryd de Löwe were at the head of the reinforcements that were coming to Gottswerder. We know that from letters that arrived at the castle. Weren't they taken prisoner?"

"No!" said Zbyszko, jumping up. "No one of importance! But by God, you're bringing me great news. By God, there are other prisoners from whom I'll learn, before they're hanged, whether there was any woman with Zygfryd."

He began calling for the servants to light torches, and ran toward where Skirwoiłło's prisoners were held. De Lorche, Macko, and Czech ran with him.

"Listen!" the Geldrian said to him along the way. "Release me on my word. I'll search for her throughout all Prussia myself. When I find her, I'll return to you, and then you can exchange me for her."

"If she's alive! If she's alive!" replied Zbyszko.

But they soon reached Skirwoiłło's prisoners. Some lay on their backs, others stood by tree trunks, cruelly tied to them with bast. The torchlight brightly illuminated Zbyszko's head, so all the unfortunate men's eyes turned toward him.

Suddenly, from the depths, a loud, terrified voice called out:

"My lord and protector! Save me!"

Zbyszko snatched a pair of burning splinters from a servant's hand, leaped toward the tree from which the voice came, and raising them high, shouted:

"Sanderus!"

"Sanderus!" repeated Czech in astonishment.

And the man, unable to move his bound hands, stretched out his neck and began to call again:

"Mercy!... I know where Jurand's daughter is!... Save me!"