PART EIGHT.
I.
Neither gentle words, nor caresses, nor entreaties helped—Danusia recognized no one and did not regain consciousness. The only feeling that had seized her entire being was terror, like the timid fear of captured birds. When they brought her food, she would not eat in front of people, though the longing glances she cast at the provisions showed she was hungry, perhaps even starving. Left alone, she fell upon the food with the greed of a wild animal, but the moment Zbyszko entered the room, she darted into a corner and hid behind a bundle of dry hops. In vain did Zbyszko open his arms, in vain reach out his hands, in vain beg her, choking back his tears. She would not come out of hiding even when they lit a fire in the common room and its glow let her see Zbyszko's features clearly. It seemed her memory had left her along with her senses. He, for his part, looked at her, at her emaciated face with its frozen expression of terror, at her sunken eyes, at the torn shreds of clothing she wore, and his heart howled with pain and fury at the thought of whose hands she had been in and how she had been treated. Finally, a frenzy of anger seized him so terribly that he grabbed his sword and lunged toward Zygfryd, and would surely have killed him had Old Maćko not caught him by the arm.
Then they began to wrestle almost like enemies, but the young man was so weakened by his earlier fight with the giant Arnold that the old knight overpowered him and, twisting his arm, shouted:
"Have you gone mad, or what?"
"Let go!" Zbyszko answered through gritted teeth, "or my soul will tear itself apart inside me."
"Let it tear! I won't let go. Better smash your head against a tree than dishonor yourself and your whole clan."
And squeezing Zbyszko's hand as if in iron pincers, he spoke threateningly:
"Come to your senses! Vengeance won't escape you, and you are a knighted knight. What? You'd stab a bound prisoner? You won't help Danusia, and what will remain for you? Nothing but shame. Will you say that kings and princes have often murdered prisoners? Bah! Not among us! What is allowed for them is not allowed for you. They have kingdoms, cities, castles, and what do you have? Knightly honor. Whoever doesn't reproach them will spit in your eyes. Come to your senses, for God's sake!"
A moment of silence followed.
"Let go," Zbyszko repeated darkly. "I won't stab him."
"Come to the fire, we'll take counsel."
And he led him by the hand to the campfire the servants had kindled beside some resinous piles. There, sitting down, Old Maćko thought for a moment, then said:
"Remember also that you promised this old dog to Jurand. He will avenge himself on him for both his own and Danusia's torment! He'll pay him back, don't you worry! And you should accommodate Jurand in this. It is his due. And what is forbidden to you will be allowed to Jurand, for he did not capture the prisoner himself—he will receive him as a gift from you. Without shame and without reproach, he can even flay him—do you understand me?"
"I understand," replied Zbyszko. "You speak rightly."
"So your reason is returning, I see. If the devil still tempts you, also remember that you have made vows to Lichtenstein and to other Teutonic Knights. And if you were to slaughter a defenseless prisoner and word spread through the servants, no knight would want to face you, and he would be right, God forbid! There is no shortage of misfortune already—let there at least be no shame. Better, let's talk about what we should do now and how to proceed."
"Advise me," said the young man.
"I'll advise this: that snake who was with Danusia could be killed, but since it is not fitting for knights to get soiled with a woman's blood, we'll hand her over to Prince Janusz. She plotted treachery even at the forest manor in the presence of the prince and princess, so let the Mazovian courts judge her. If they don't break her on the wheel for that, they must want to offend divine justice. Until we meet some other woman who will undertake care of Danusia, she is needed; afterward, we'll tie her to a horse's tail. Now we need to head for the Mazovian forests as quickly as possible."
"Not right away, because it's night. Perhaps God will grant Danusia greater lucidity tomorrow."
"Let the horses rest well too. We'll move at dawn."
Their further conversation was interrupted by the voice of Arnold von Baden, who lay nearby on his back, trussed to his own sword, and began to call out something in German. Old Maćko got up and went toward him, but unable to understand his speech well, started looking around for the Czech.
But Hlawa could not come at once, for he was busy with something else. During their talk by the fire, he had gone to the Order's serving woman, placed his hand on her neck, and shaken her like a pear.
"Listen, you bitch!" he said. "You'll go to the hut and make a bed of furs for the lady. But first you'll put your decent clothes on her, and you yourself will dress in those rags you made her wear... Damn you!"
And unable to check his sudden fury, he shook her so hard that her eyes bulged. He might have wrung her neck, but she still seemed necessary to him, so he finally let go, saying:
"And later we'll pick a branch for you!"
She grabbed his knees in terror, but when he kicked her in response, she ran into the hut, threw herself at Danusia's feet, and screeched:
"Defend me! Don't let them!"
But Danusia only closed her eyes, and a breathless whisper escaped her lips:
"I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid!"
And then she went completely numb, for every approach of the Order's servant always produced this effect. She allowed herself to be undressed and dressed in new clothes. The servant, having made the bed, laid her on it like a wooden or wax figure, then sat by the fire herself, afraid to leave the room.
But the Czech entered after a moment. Turning first to Danusia, he said:
"You are among friends, my lady, so in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, sleep peacefully!"
And he made the sign of the cross over her. Then, without raising his voice so as not to frighten her, he said to the servant:
"You will lie bound outside the threshold. But if you make noise and frighten her, I'll break your neck right away. Get up and come!"
He led her out of the room and bound her tightly, as he had said. Then he went to Zbyszko.
"I ordered the lady to be dressed in the clothes that viper was wearing," he said. "The bed is made, and the lady is sleeping. It's best if you don't go in there now, sir, so she doesn't get frightened. God willing, after rest she'll regain her senses tomorrow. And now you should also think about food and rest."
"I'll lie down by the threshold of the room," replied Zbyszko.
"Then I'll drag the bitch aside to that corpse with the red hair. But now you must eat, for the road and no small hardship lie ahead."
Having said this, he went to get smoked meat and smoked turnip from the saddlebags they had provisioned for the journey in the Samogitian camp. But he had barely placed the supplies before Zbyszko when Old Maćko called him over to Arnold.
"Figure out properly," he said, "what this giant wants. Because although I know some words, I simply cannot understand him."
"I'll carry him to the fire, sir, and you can talk there," replied the Czech.
He unbuckled his belt, passed it under Arnold's arms, then hoisted him onto his back. He bent greatly under the giant's weight, but being a sturdy fellow, he carried him to the fire and dropped him like a sack of peas next to Zbyszko.
"Remove my bonds," said the Teutonic Knight.
"That could be," answered Old Maćko through the Czech, "if you would swear on knightly honor that you consider yourself a prisoner. However, even without that, I'll have them pull the sword from under your knees and untie your hands, so you can sit with us, but I won't loosen the ropes on your feet until we have spoken."
He nodded to the Czech, who cut the German's hand bonds and then helped him sit up. Arnold looked defiantly at Maćko and Zbyszko and asked:
"Who are you?"
"And how dare you ask? What business is it of yours? Find out yourself."
"It is my business, because on knightly honor I could only swear to knights."
"Then look!"
And Maćko, lifting his cloak, showed the knight's belt on his hips.
At this, the Teutonic Knight was greatly astonished, and only after a moment said:
"How is that? You roam the forest as bandits for loot? And you support pagans against Christians?"
"You lie!" cried Maćko.
And so began a conversation, hostile, defiant, often like a quarrel. But when Maćko cried out in agitation that it was precisely the Order that prevented the baptism of Lithuania, and when he cited all the proofs, Arnold was again astonished and fell silent, for this truth was so obvious that it was impossible not to see or deny it. The German was particularly struck by the words that Maćko uttered while making the sign of the cross: "Who knows whom you truly serve, if not all, then some!"—and they struck him because even within the Order itself there was suspicion against several Komturs that they worshipped Satan. No charges were brought against them, nor any trials, so as not to bring shame upon all. But Arnold knew well that such things were whispered among the brothers and that similar rumors circulated.
Moreover, Maćko, knowing from Sanderus's stories about Zygfryd's incomprehensible behavior, completely disturbed the simple-minded giant.
"And that Zygfryd, with whom you went on campaign," he said, "does he serve God and Christ? Have you never heard how he spoke with evil spirits, whispered with them and laughed, or gnashed his teeth?"
"It's true!" muttered Arnold.
But Zbyszko, whose heart was flooded with a new wave of grief and anger, suddenly cried out:
"And you talk about knightly honor? Shame on you, for you helped a tormentor and a hellish one! Shame on you, for you calmly watched the torment of a defenseless woman and a knight's daughter, and maybe you yourself tormented her. Shame on you!"
Arnold stared wide-eyed and, making the sign of the cross in astonishment, said:
"In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit!... What? This possessed girl, in whose head twenty-seven devils dwell? Me?"
"Woe! Woe!" interrupted Zbyszko in a hoarse voice.
And grabbing the hilt of his misericorde, he began to look again with a wild gaze toward Zygfryd, who was lying nearby in the dark.
Maćko calmly placed his hand on his shoulder and pressed with all his might to bring him back to his senses. Then, turning to Arnold, he said:
"This woman is the daughter of Jurand of Spychów and the wife of this young knight. Do you understand now why we tracked you, and why you became our prisoner?"
"By God!" said Arnold. "From where? How? She has a confused mind..."
"Because the Teutonic Knights kidnapped her like an innocent lamb and brought her to this through torment."
At the words "innocent lamb," Zbyszko brought his fist to his mouth and bit his knuckle, and large tears of unbridled grief began to fall from his eyes one after another. Arnold sat lost in thought, while the Czech in a few words told him of Danveld's treachery, the kidnapping of Danusia, Jurand's torment, and the duel with Rotgier.
When he finished, silence fell, disturbed only by the murmur of the forest and the crackling of sparks in the fire.
They sat like that for a few moments. Finally, Arnold raised his head and said:
"Not only on knightly honor, but on Christ's cross I swear to you that I hardly ever saw this woman, that I did not know who she was, and that I never in any way laid a hand on her torment."
"Then swear also that you will voluntarily come with us and that you will not try to escape, and I will have you completely untied," said Maćko.
"Let it be as you say—I swear! Where will you take me?" said the Teutonic Knight.
"To Masovia, to Jurand of Spychów."
Saying this, Maćko himself cut the rope on his feet, then pointed to the meat and turnip.
Zbyszko after some time got up and went to rest at the threshold of the hut, near which he no longer found the Order's serving woman, for earlier the servants had taken her among the horses. There, lying down on the hide that Hlawa had brought him, he decided to wait sleeplessly, whether dawn might bring some happy change in Danusia.
The Czech, however, returned to the fire, for something was weighing on his soul that he wanted to discuss with the old knight from Bogdaniec. He found him also lost in thought, and ignoring Arnold's snoring—who, after consuming an immense quantity of smoked turnip and meat, had fallen into a stone-like sleep from exhaustion—he said:
"And you won't rest, sir?" asked the squire.
"Sleep flees from my eyelids," replied Maćko. "God grant a good tomorrow..."
And having said this, he looked toward the stars.
"The Wagon is already visible in the sky, and I keep pondering how it will all turn out."