Tochtamysz was placed by him on the throne of the Golden and Blue Horde and acknowledged as “son.” But when his dominion stretched from Aral to Crimea, over more lands than all the rest of Europe, the “son” wanted to be an independent ruler, for which he was deprived of his throne by a single finger of his terrible father, and fled to the Lithuanian ruler, calling for his help. It was precisely Tochtamysz whom Witold intended to restore to his realm, but to do that, he first had to measure himself against the world-ruling Lame One.
For this reason, his mighty name made a strong impression on the listeners, and after a moment of silence, one of the oldest knights, Kazko of Jagłowo, said:
“This is no small matter.”
“And over something trivial as well,” said Mikołaj z Długolasu wisely. “For whether Tochtamysz reigns beyond the tenth land, or some Kutluk rules over the sons of Belial, what good will that do us?”
“Tochtamysz would adopt the Christian faith,” replied Macko.
“He might adopt it or not. Can one trust scoundrels who do not profess Christ?”
“But for the name of Christ it is worthy to die,” replied Powała.
“And for knightly honor,” added Toporczyk, a relative of the castellan, “there are among us those who will go. Lord Spytko of Melsztyn has a young and beloved wife, yet he has already set out for Prince Witold.”
“And it’s no wonder,” interjected Jasko Naszan, “even if you had the most heinous sin on your soul, absolution for such a war is certain and salvation certain.”
“And glory forever and ever,” said Powała z Taczewa again. “War is war, and if it’s not just anyone, all the better. Tymur has conquered the world and has twenty-seven kingdoms under him. That would be glory for our nation if you crushed him.”
“Why not?” replied Toporczyk. “Even if he possessed a hundred kingdoms, let others fear him—not us! Well spoken! Just muster ten thousand good lancers, and we’ll ride across the world.”
“And which nation is to conquer the Lame One if not ours?...”
Thus the knights conversed, and Zbyszko was surprised that he had never before felt the urge to ride with Witold into the wild steppes. But during his stay in Vilnius, he had wanted to see Krakow, the court, to take part in knightly jousts, and now he thought that here he might find dishonor and judgment, while there, in the worst case, he would find death certain of glory.
But the hundred-year-old Kazko of Jagłowo, whose neck already shook with age and who had wisdom befitting his years, poured cold water on the knights’ eagerness:
“You’re fools,” he said. “Has not one of you heard that the image of Christ spoke to the queen, and if the Savior himself permits such familiarity with her, why would the Holy Spirit, who is the third person of the Trinity, be less merciful towards her? Therefore she sees future things as if they were happening before her, and she said thus...”
Here he paused and shook his head for a moment, then said:
“I forgot what she said, but I’ll remember in a moment.”
And he began to think, while they waited attentively, for it was commonly believed that the queen saw future events.
“Aha!” he said at last. “I’ve recalled it now! The queen said that if all the knights here went with Prince Witold against the Lame One, then the pagan force would be crushed. But that cannot be because of the wickedness of Christian lords. The borders must be guarded against both Czechs and Hungarians and the Order, for no one can be trusted. And if only a handful of Poles go with Witold, then Tymur the Lame or his voivodes, who command countless hordes, will defeat him...”
“But now there is peace,” said Toporczyk, “and the Order itself supposedly gives some kind of help to Witold. Even the Teutonic Knights cannot do otherwise, if only for shame—to show the Holy Father that they are ready to fight pagans. Courtiers also say that Kuno Lichtenstein is here not only for the baptism but also for consultations with the king.”
“And there he is!” exclaimed Macko with surprise.
“True!” said Powała, looking around. “By God, it’s him! He stayed briefly with the abbot and must have left Tyniec at dawn.”
“He seemed to be in a hurry,” replied Macko gloomily.
Meanwhile, Kuno Lichtenstein passed by them. Macko recognized him by the cross embroidered on his cloak, but he recognized neither him nor Zbyszko, for he had previously seen them in helmets, and from a helmet, even with the visor open, only a small part of a knight’s face was visible. As he passed, he nodded to Powała z Taczewa and Toporczyk, then, together with his squires, began to ascend the steps to the cathedral with a grave and majestic step.
Suddenly the bells rang out, startling a flock of jackdaws and pigeons nesting on the towers, and at the same time announcing that mass would soon begin. Macko and Zbyszko entered the church together with the others, somewhat troubled by Lichtenstein’s swift return.
They did not wait long, and the king entered first through the sacristy door, and before he reached the altar, one could observe him well. He had black, tousled hair, somewhat thinning at the forehead, long, tucked behind his ears on the sides; a swarthy, clean-shaven face; a hooked and rather pointed nose; wrinkles around the mouth; small, black, gleaming eyes with which he darted glances in all directions, as if he wanted, before reaching the altar, to count all the people in the church. His face had a kind but also watchful expression, that of a man raised by fortune above his own expectations, who must constantly think whether his deeds correspond to his dignity, and who fears malicious reproaches. But precisely for this reason there was a certain impatience in his face and movements. It was easy to guess that his anger must be sudden and terrible, and that he was still the same prince who, in his time, irritated by the machinations of the Teutonic Knights, shouted to their envoys: “You come to me with parchment, and I come to you with a spear!”
But now his natural ardor was restrained by great and sincere piety. Not only the newly converted Lithuanian princes, but also the devout Polish magnates of many generations were edified by the sight of the king in church. Often, discarding the cushion, he would kneel on the bare stones for greater mortification; often, raising his hands upward, he would hold them aloft until they fell of their own accord from fatigue. He heard at least three masses daily and heard them almost greedily. The uncovering of the chalice and the sound of the bell at the Elevation always filled his soul with rapture, delight, pleasure, and awe. After mass ended, he would leave the church as if awakened from a dream, calm and gentle, and the courtiers early learned that it was then best to ask him for either forgiveness or gifts.
Jadwiga entered through the sacristy door. Seeing her, the knights nearest the stalls, although mass had not yet begun, knelt immediately, involuntarily paying her homage as if to a saint. Zbyszko did the same, for in that entire assembly no one doubted that they truly had before them a saint, whose images would in time adorn church altars. Especially in recent years, the austere, penitential life of Jadwiga caused that besides the honor due to a queen, she was paid almost religious veneration. From mouth to mouth among lords and commoners went reports of miracles performed by the queen. It was said that the touch of her hand healed the sick; people deprived of the use of hands and legs regained it after putting on the queen’s old garments. Foreign monarchs venerated her on their knees; even the haughty Teutonic Order honored and feared to offend her. Pope Boniface IX called her a holy and chosen daughter of the Church.
The world watched her deeds and remembered that this child of the House of Anjou and the Polish Piasts, this daughter of the mighty Louis, ward of the most splendid court, and finally the most beautiful of maidens on earth, renounced happiness, renounced her first virginal love, and married, as queen, the “wild” prince of Lithuania, in order together with him to bring to the foot of the Cross the last pagan nation in Europe. What the forces of all the Germans, the power of the Order, the Crusades, the sea of spilled blood could not achieve—that one word of hers achieved. Never did the glory of apostleship illumine a younger and more wondrous brow—never did apostleship unite with such sacrifice—never did feminine beauty shine with such angelic goodness and such quiet sadness.
Minstrels also sang of her at all the courts of Europe; knights from the most distant lands traveled to Krakow to see this “Polish queen”; her own people loved her like the apple of their eye, for through her union with Jagiello she increased their power and glory. Only one great anxiety weighed upon her and upon the nation—God had denied this chosen one offspring for long years. But when at last this misfortune passed, the joyful news of the obtained blessing spread like lightning, from the Baltic to the Black Sea, to the Carpathians, and filled with gladness all the peoples of the vast state. With the exception of the Teutonic capital, it was received joyfully even at foreign courts. In Rome, “Te Deum” was sung.
People came to Queen Jadwiga to beg her to intercede for their health; envoys came from lands and districts, so that she might pray, as needed, for rain, for fair weather for the harvest, for a successful mowing, for a good honey harvest, for abundance of fish in the lakes, and for game in the forests. Fearsome knights from border castles and keeps, who following a custom adopted from the Germans engaged in banditry or warfare among themselves, at a single admonition from her would sheathe their swords, release prisoners without ransom, return seized herds, and join hands in reconciliation. Every misfortune, every poverty pressed to the gates of Krakow castle. Her pure spirit penetrated human hearts, softened the fate of subjects, the pride of lords, the severity of judges—and hovered, like the dawn of happiness, like an angel of justice and peace, over the entire land.
All also awaited the day of blessing with beating hearts.
The knights looked intently at the queen’s figure. Once raised at a splendid court and fairer than all contemporary princesses, she had delighted in costly fabrics, chains, pearls, golden bracelets, and rings; now, and even for several years past, she not only wore the garments of a nun but even veiled her face, for fear that thoughts of her own beauty might awaken worldly pride in her. Gold and jewels, meanwhile, went to the academy or to sending newly baptized Lithuanian youth to foreign universities. The queen only agreed to change her monastic appearance in this: that from the time when the hope of motherhood became complete certainty, she no longer veiled her face, rightly believing that from that moment the garb of a penitent was not fitting for her.
Somehow all eyes now rested with love on that wondrous face, which neither gold nor precious stones could add ornament to. The queen walked slowly from the sacristy door, her eyes raised upward, a book in one hand, a rosary in the other. Zbyszko saw a lily-white face, blue eyes, features simply angelic, full of peace, goodness, mercy, and his heart began to beat like a hammer. He knew that by God’s command he should love both his king and his queen, and he loved them in his own way, but now his heart suddenly boiled with a great love that arises not from commandment but bursts forth of its own accord like a flame, and is at once the greatest reverence, humility, and desire for sacrifice. He was young and impetuous, the yeoman Zbyszko, so he was immediately seized by a desire to somehow show this love and loyalty of a subject-knight, to do something for her, to fly somewhere, to cut someone up, to win something, and at the same time risk his own neck.
“I will go with Prince Witold,” he said to himself, “for how can I serve the holy lady when there is no war anywhere near?”
It never even occurred to him that one could serve otherwise than with sword, spear, or axe, but for that he was ready to strike alone against all the power of Tymur the Lame. He wanted to mount his horse right after mass and start something. What? He didn’t know himself. He only knew that he couldn’t bear it, that his hands were burning and his whole soul was aflame.
He also forgot completely about the danger that threatened him. He even forgot Danusia for a moment—and when she came to his mind because of the childish singing that suddenly arose in the church, he felt that that was something else. He had promised Danusia faithfulness, promised three Germans—and he would keep that promise—but the queen was above all women—and when he thought how many he would like to kill for the queen, he saw before him whole ranks of armor, helmets, ostrich and peacock feathers, and felt that even that would be too little by his desire.
Meanwhile, he did not take his eyes off her, thinking in his swelling heart how to honor her with prayer, for he believed that one could not pray just anyhow for the queen. He began to repeat in a circle a few words that meant in his soul: “Grant our beloved lady health and life and happiness—and care for her more than for anything else.” And since this was said by a man over whose own head hung judgment and punishment—therefore in the whole church there was no more sincere prayer.