II.
After Danusia’s funeral, Zbyszko did not take to his bed, but he lived in a daze. At first, in the early days, he was not so bad: he walked, talked about his dead wife, visited Jurand and sat with him. He also told the priest about Macko’s captivity, and they both decided to send Tolima to Prussia and Malbork to find out where Macko was and to ransom him, also paying for Zbyszko as many grzywna as they had agreed with Arnold von Baden and his brother. In the Spychow dungeons there was no lack of silver, which Jurand had either acquired in his time or captured, so the priest assumed that the Krzyżacy, as long as they received money, would easily release the old knight and would not demand that the young one appear in person.
“Go to Płock,” the priest said to Tolima before his departure, “and get a safe-conduct from the Prince of Płock. Otherwise, the first Komtur to come along will rob you and imprison you.”
“Bah! I know them well,” old Tolima replied. “They know how to rob even those who come with safe-conducts.”
And he left. But soon Father Kaleb regretted not sending Zbyszko himself. He had been afraid that in the first moments of grief the young man would not be able to conduct himself properly, or might explode against the Krzyżacy and put himself in danger; he also knew that it would be hard for him to leave his beloved coffin right away, in fresh sorrow and fresh bereavement, and so soon after that terrible and painful journey from somewhere near Gotteswerder to Spychow. But later he regretted having taken all that into account, because Zbyszko grew worse with each day. He had lived until Danusia’s death in a terrible effort, a terrible strain of all his strength: he had traveled to the ends of the earth, fought, rescued his wife, crossed wild forests, and suddenly it all ended as if cut off by a sword, leaving only the memory that everything had been in vain, that his efforts were futile — and that although they had passed, with them passed a part of his life, his hope passed, his happiness passed, his love perished, and nothing remained. Everyone lives for tomorrow, everyone plans and arranges something for the future, but for Zbyszko tomorrow became indifferent, and as for the future, he felt what Jagienka felt when, leaving Spychow, she said: “My happiness is behind me, not ahead of me.” And to make matters worse, in his soul that feeling of helplessness, emptiness, and misery grew on a foundation of enormous pain and ever-increasing grief for Danusia.
That grief seized him, overwhelmed him, and at the same time hardened in him more and more, so that finally there was no room in Zbyszko’s heart for anything else. So he thought only of it, nurtured it within himself, and lived with it alone, insensible to everything else, withdrawn into himself, sunk as if in a half-sleep, unaware of what was happening around him. All the powers of his soul and body, his former quickness and valor, had passed into a state of slackness. In his look and movements he now had a certain heaviness of an old man. Whole days and nights he spent either in the dungeon by Danusia’s coffin, or on the bench in front of the house, warming himself in the sunlight at midday. At times he became so lost in thought that he would not answer questions. Father Kaleb, who loved him, began to fear that this pain might consume him as rust consumes iron — and he sadly thought that perhaps it would have been better to send Zbyszko, even to the Krzyżacy with the ransom.
“He needs,” he said to the local chaplain, with whom he discussed his worries for lack of anyone else, “some adventure to shake him, like the wind shakes a tree, otherwise he’ll waste away completely.”
And the chaplain wisely agreed, saying by way of comparison that when a man chokes on a bone, the best thing is to give him a good thump on the back.
No adventure occurred, however, but instead, a few weeks later, Sir de Lorche arrived unexpectedly. The sight of him shook Zbyszko, for it reminded him of the expedition to Samogitia and the rescue of Danusia. De Lorche himself did not hesitate at all to touch on these painful memories. On the contrary, having learned of Zbyszko’s misfortune, he immediately went to pray with him over Danusia’s coffin, spoke of her incessantly, and then, being half a poet, composed a song about her, which he sang with a lute at night by the grate of the dungeon, so plaintively and mournfully that Zbyszko, though he did not understand the words, was seized by a great fit of weeping from the melody alone, which lasted until dawn.
And then, exhausted by this weeping, grief, and lack of rest, he fell into a long sleep, but when he woke, his pain had clearly flowed away with the tears, for he was more refreshed than in previous days and looked ahead more cheerfully. He also rejoiced greatly at Sir de Lorche and began to thank him for his arrival, and then asked how he had learned of his misfortune.
And he replied through the mouth of Father Kaleb that he had only learned of Danusia’s death in Lubawa from old Tolima, whom he had seen in chains at the local Komtur’s, but that he was coming to Spychow anyway to surrender himself as a prisoner to Zbyszko.
The news of Tolima’s imprisonment made a great impression on both Zbyszko and the priest. They understood that the ransom was lost, for there was nothing more difficult in the world than to tear money out of the Krzyżacy’s throats once they had grabbed it. In view of this, they had to go with a second ransom.
“Woe!” cried Zbyszko. “So my poor uncle is waiting there, thinking I’ve forgotten him. I must hasten to him as fast as I can.”
Then he turned to Sir de Lorche: “You know what happened? You know he is in the hands of the Krzyżacy?”
“I know,” replied de Lorche, “for I saw him in Malbork, and that is why I came here myself.”
Meanwhile, Father Kaleb began to complain. “We acted badly,” he said, “but no one had any wits... I expected more wisdom from Tolima. Why didn’t he go to Płock and instead threw himself among those robbers without any safe-conduct!”
At that, Sir de Lorche shrugged. “What are safe-conducts to them! Don’t the Prince of Płock himself, just like your prince here, suffer many wrongs from them? On the border there are constant battles and attacks — for your people also give no quarter. Every Komtur, indeed! every vogt does as he pleases, and in rapacity they probably outdo each other...”
“All the more reason Tolima should have gone to Płock.”
“That’s what he intended to do, but they seized him on the road near the border while he was sleeping at an inn. They would have killed him if he hadn’t told them he was bringing money for the Komtur of Lubawa. That saved him, but now the Komtur has set up witnesses that Tolima himself said it.”
“And how is Uncle Macko? Is he well? Are they threatening his life?” asked Zbyszko.
“He is well,” replied de Lorche. “There is great animosity there against ‘King’ Witold and against those who help the Samogitians — and they would surely have beheaded the old knight if it weren’t that they regret losing the ransom. The von Baden brothers also defend him for the same reason, and finally the Chapter cares about my head, for if they sacrificed it, the knights would rise against them in Flanders, and in Geldern, and in Burgundy... You know that I am a relative of the Count of Geldern.”
“But why would your head be at stake?” interrupted Zbyszko in surprise.
“Because I am your captive. I said in Malbork: ‘If you take the life of the old knight of Bogdaniec, the young one will take mine.’”
“I will not do that, so help me God!”
“I know you won’t, but they are afraid of it, and because of that Macko remains safe among them. They told me that you are also a captive, because the von Badens only released you on your knightly word, and therefore I don’t need to present myself. But I answered them that when you captured me, you were free. So here I am! And as long as I am in your hands, they will do nothing to you or to Macko. Pay the ransom to the von Badens, and for me demand twice or three times as much. They must pay. I don’t say this because I think I am worth more than you, but to punish their greed, which I despise. I once had a completely different opinion of them, but now they and their hospitality have become loathsome to me. I will go to the Holy Land to seek adventures there, for I do not wish to serve them any longer.”
“Or stay with us, sir,” said Father Kaleb. “And I think that will happen, because as for them paying ransom for you, that does not seem likely to me.”
“If they don’t pay, I will pay myself,” replied de Lorche. “I came here with a considerable retinue and loaded wagons, and what is on them is enough...”
Father Kaleb repeated these words to Zbyszko, to which Macko would certainly not have been indifferent, but Zbyszko, being young and caring little for property, replied:
“Upon my honor! It will not be as you say. You have been a brother and friend to me, and I will take no ransom from you whatsoever.”
Then they embraced, feeling that a new bond had been tied between them. But de Lorche smiled and said:
“Good. Just let the Krzyżacy not know about it, or they will haggle over Macko. But you see, they must pay, for they will be afraid that otherwise I will spread the word among the courts and knights that they willingly invite and welcome knightly guests, but when one falls into captivity, they forget about him. And the Order now cares desperately about guests, for they fear Witold, and even more the Poles and their king.”
“Then let it be so,” said Zbyszko, “that you stay here, or wherever you like in Masovia, and I will go to Malbork for my uncle and pretend to be fiercely hostile toward you.”
“By Saint George, do that!” replied de Lorche. “But first listen to what I tell you. In Malbork they say that the Polish king is to come to Płock and meet with the Grand Master either in Płock itself or somewhere on the border. The Krzyżacy greatly desire this, for they want to find out whether the king will help Witold if he declares open war against them over Samogitia. Ha! They are as cunning as serpents, but in Witold they have met their match. The Order also fears him, because it is never known what he plans and what he will do: ‘He gave us Samogitia,’ they say in the Chapter, ‘but through it he constantly holds a sword over our necks. He has but to say the word,’ they say, ‘and rebellion is ready!’ And so it is. I must one day visit his court. Perhaps I will have a chance to joust in the lists at his court, and besides, I have heard that the women there are sometimes of angelic beauty.”
“You were speaking, sir, of the arrival of the Polish king in Płock?” interrupted Father Kaleb.
“Yes. Let Zbyszko join the royal court. The Grand Master wants to win over the king and will refuse him nothing. You know that when need arises, no one can be more humble than the Krzyżacy. Let Zbyszko join the retinue and demand his due, let him cry out against the lawlessness as loudly as possible. They will listen to him otherwise, in the presence of the king and the Krakow knights, who are famous in the world and whose judgments spread widely among knighthood.”
“An excellent idea! By the Lord’s Cross, excellent!” cried the priest.
“Yes!” confirmed de Lorche. “And there will be no lack of opportunity. I heard in Malbork that there will be feasts and tournaments, for the foreign guests are determined to joust with the king’s knights. By God! The knight John of Aragon is also to come, the greatest of all in Christendom. Don’t you know? He supposedly sent his gauntlet all the way from Aragon to your Zawisza, so that they would not say at the courts that there is another equal to him in the world.”
The arrival of Sir de Lorche, his appearance, and the whole conversation, however, roused Zbyszko from that painful numbness in which he had been immersed, so that he listened to his news with curiosity. He knew about John of Aragon, for it was the duty of every knight at that time to know and remember the names of all the most famous warriors, and the fame of the Aragonese nobility, and especially of that John, had spread throughout the world. No knight had ever matched him in the lists. The Moors fled at the very sight of his armor, and it was commonly believed that he was the foremost in all Christendom.
So at the news of him, Zbyszko’s knightly and warlike soul stirred, and he began to ask with great interest:
“Did he challenge Zawisza Czarny?”
“It is a year now, I believe, since the gauntlet came, and since Zawisza sent his back.”
“Then John of Aragon will surely come?”
“Whether for sure — they do not know, but there are such rumors. The Krzyżacy sent him an invitation long ago.”
“God grant that I may see such things.”
“God grant!” said de Lorche. “And even if Zawisza were defeated, which could easily happen, it would be a great honor for him that such a John of Aragon challenged him, indeed! and for your whole nation.”
“We shall see!” said Zbyszko. “I only say: God grant that I see it.”
“And I second that.”
However, their wish was not to be fulfilled this time, for the old chronicles mention that the duel between Zawisza and the renowned John of Aragon took place only a dozen or so years later, in Perpignan, where in the presence of Emperor Sigismund, Pope Benedict XIII, and the King of Aragon and many princes and cardinals, Zawisza Czarny of Garbow knocked his opponent from his horse with the first thrust of his lance and won a brilliant victory over him.
Meanwhile, however, both Zbyszko and de Lorche rejoiced in their hearts, for they thought that even if John of Aragon could not appear at that time, they would still see remarkable knightly deeds, because Poland did not lack champions who were little inferior to Zawisza, and among the Krzyżacy’s guests one could always find the finest swordsmen from France, England, Burgundy, and Italy, ready to vie with anyone.
“Listen,” Zbyszko said to Sir de Lorche. “I miss Uncle Macko and am eager to ransom him, so tomorrow at daybreak I will set out for Płock. But why should you stay here? You are supposedly my captive, so come with me, and you will see the king and the court.”
“I was just about to ask you that,” replied de Lorche, “for I have long wanted to see your knights, and besides, I have heard that the ladies of the royal court resemble angels more than inhabitants of this earthly vale.”
“You just said the same about Witold’s court,” observed Zbyszko.