“I want nothing to do with the woman,” Wolfgang answered roughly. “Let one of you take her back to her father, provided he reports back afterward. But I won’t let the other go.”
“Well, what if I swore on my honor and by Saint George’s lance?”
Wolfgang hesitated a moment, for it was a weighty oath, but just then Arnold asked a third time: “What is he saying?” And having learned what was afoot, he began to oppose passionately and coarsely the release of both on their word. He had his own calculation: he had been defeated in a major battle by Skirwoillo and in single combat by these Polish knights. As a soldier, he knew well that his brother’s infantry had to return to Malbork—if they pushed on to Gotteswerder after the destruction of the previous detachments, they would be marching to their slaughter. He knew, therefore, that he would have to appear before the Grand Master and the Marshal, and he understood that his shame would be less if he could show at least one notable captive. A living knight presented to the eye means more than a tale of having taken two such prisoners.
Thus Macko, listening to Arnold’s hoarse shouts and curses, understood at once that he must take what was offered, for he would gain nothing more. Turning to Wolfgang, he said: “Then I ask you, sir, for one thing more. I am certain my nephew will himself understand that he should stay with his wife and that I should go with you. But just in case, allow me to tell him there’s nothing to discuss—it is your will.”
“Good, it’s all the same to me,” Wolfgang replied. “Let us talk only about the ransom your nephew must bring for himself and for you, for everything hinges on that.”
“Ransom?” asked Macko, who would have preferred to put off that conversation. “Do we not have enough time ahead? When dealing with a knighted knight, a word is as good as ready money. And as for the amount, you can trust to his conscience. At Gotteswerder we took one of your notable knights, a certain Sir de Lorche, and my nephew—for it was he who captured him—released him on his word without settling any price.”
“You took Sir de Lorche?” Wolfgang asked eagerly. “I know him. A mighty knight. But why did we not meet him on the road?”
“Because evidently he didn’t come this way, only to Gotteswerder or toward Ragneta,” Macko replied.
“A mighty knight of illustrious lineage,” Wolfgang repeated. “You’ll make a good haul! But it’s well you mentioned it, for now I won’t let you go for a pittance.”
Macko bit his mustache but raised his head proudly. “We know our worth even without that.”
“So much the better,” said the younger von Baden. Then he added: “So much the better—not for us, for we are humble monks who have vowed poverty, but for the Order, which will use your money for God’s glory.”
Macko said nothing in reply; he only looked at Wolfgang as if to say, “Tell that to someone else,” and after a while they began to negotiate. It was a difficult and touchy matter for the old knight, because on one hand he was very sensitive to any loss, and on the other he understood that it did not become him to value himself and Zbyszko too cheaply. So he wriggled like an eel, especially since Wolfgang, though seeming humane and smooth-spoken, proved immoderately greedy and hard as stone. Macko’s only comfort was the thought that de Lorche would pay for it all, but even so he regretted the lost hope of profit, and as for any gain from Siegfried’s ransom, he did not count on it, for he thought that Jurand—and even Zbyszko—would not give up his head for any price.
After long bargaining they finally agreed on the amount of grzywny and the term, and having stipulated how many servants and horses Zbyszko might take, Macko went to inform him. There, clearly fearing the Germans might get some other idea, he urged him to leave at once.
“Such is the knightly life,” he said, sighing. “Yesterday you had someone by the scruff, today they have you. Ah well, no help for it! God willing, our turn will come again. But now don’t waste time. Riding fast, you’ll catch up to Hlawa, and it will be safer for you together. Once you get out of the wilderness and reach Masovia, a civilized land, you’ll find hospitality, help, and care from every nobleman or yeoman. Strangers are not refused that in our country, let alone our own people! For that poor little one, it may even be her salvation.”
He looked at Danusia as he spoke. Half-asleep, she breathed quickly and audibly. Her translucent hands, lying on the dark bearskin, twitched feverishly. Macko made the sign of the cross over her and said: “Hey, take her and go. May God change this, for it seems to me she’s not long for this world.”
“Don’t say that!” Zbyszko cried with desperate emphasis.
“God’s power! I’ll have a horse brought for you—now ride.”
He left the room and arranged everything for the departure. The Turkish lads, a gift from Zawisza, led up the horses with the cradle, lined with moss and skins, and the servant Wit brought Zbyszko’s mount. After a moment Zbyszko came out, holding Danusia in his arms.
There was something so moving about it that both von Baden brothers, whose curiosity had brought them before the hut, began to look at each other in astonishment. Seeing Danusia’s still almost childlike figure, her face truly like those of the holy maidens in church paintings, and her weakness so great that she could not lift her head but rested it heavily on the young knight’s shoulder, their hearts stirred against the perpetrators of her misery. “Truly, Siegfried had the heart of an executioner, not a knight,” Wolfgang whispered to his brother. “And that snake—even though I owe my release to her—I’ll have flogged with rods.” They were also moved that Zbyszko carried Danusia in his arms like a mother carries a child, and they understood his love, for both still had young blood in their veins.
He hesitated a moment whether to take the sick woman before him on the saddle and hold her at his chest during the journey, or to put her in the cradle. He finally decided on the latter, thinking it would be more comfortable for her to travel lying down. So he approached his uncle, bending to kiss his hand in farewell. But Macko, who in truth loved him like the apple of his eye, though he did not want to show emotion before the Germans, could not restrain himself. He embraced him tightly and pressed his lips to his thick, golden hair.
“May God guide you!” he said. “And remember the old man, for captivity is always a hard thing.”
“I won’t forget,” Zbyszko replied.
“May the Holy Mother give you comfort!”
“May God reward you for this… and for everything.”
A moment later Zbyszko was in the saddle, but Macko remembered something else and jumped toward him, placing his hand on his knee. “Listen! If you catch up to Hlawa, as for Siegfried—see you bring no shame upon yourself or my gray hair. Jurand is one thing, but not you! Swear it to me by the sword and by honor!”
“Until you return, I’ll restrain Jurand too, so they don’t take revenge on you for Siegfried,” Zbyszko answered.
“So that’s how much you care about me?”
The young man smiled sadly. “You know you do.”
“On your way! Ride in health!”
The horses set off, and soon the bright hazel thicket hid them from view. Macko suddenly felt terribly gloomy and lonely, his soul straining with all its strength after that beloved lad in whom lay the whole hope of the clan. But he quickly shook off his sorrow, for he was a hard man with self-control. “Thank God it’s not him in captivity, only me…” And he turned to the Germans. “And you, sirs, when will you set out, and where?”
“When it pleases us,” Wolfgang replied. “We’re going to Malbork, where you must first appear before the Grand Master, sir.”
“Hey, they’re ready to cut my head off there for helping the Samogitians!” Macko said to himself. However, he was calmed by the thought that Sir de Lorche stood in reserve, and that the von Badens themselves would defend his head, if only so their ransom wouldn’t be lost. “For surely,” he told himself, “in that case Zbyszko would have no need to appear himself, nor to diminish his property.” And this thought brought him some relief.